Makes Me Wanna Howl
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: The Team is off to rural Tennessee to break up a dogfighting ring, and Murdock is a little more "howling mad" than usual. A supernatural A-Team treat for Halloween and beyond.
1. Deep In the Heart of Tennessee

By: Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2008

By: Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2008

Summary: The Team's on their way to rural Tennessee to bust a dogfighting ring, and they're crankier than usual. But that's nothing next to what ails Murdock! An A-Team Halloween treat.

Rating: PG-13 for some discussion/depiction of animal cruelty, profanity, and, um, purely comic nudity. 

Warnings: None aside from the above.

Disclaimer: The A-Team has always and will always belong to SJC and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for fun and no profit whatsoever. Sit back, relax, and HOWL!

"Pass me another cigar, would you, Face?" One gloved hand reached back in anticipation.

Barely looking up from _The Life and Times of Marie Antoinette, _Face obliged. "My last one. Make it last, Hannibal, all right? I'm not exactly sure the stores here are well-stocked with El Capitans."

"Get yo' directions right next time, Faceman. I went south on 41 like you said, and we've been lost for at least an hour," growled B.A., staring ahead into a panorama of darkness and trees. A bullet-punctured "Deer Crossing" sign was momentarily reflected in the van's headlights.

Hannibal's Zippo clicked shut. "Go easy on him, B.A. I'm a little lost in this part of the country myself. Where are we, exactly, Lieutenant?"

A deep sigh, and Face marked his place with reluctance. "I'm following the directions the client gave us. We're…" He hesitated, peering at the map under the watery overhead light. "somewhere along 41, between Nowhere and Nothing. Looks like the next available stop is the bustling metropolis of Tyrell, Tennessee. Look, you think I actually know my way around here?"

"It was either you or Crazy Man as the navigator. What's he doin' back there, anyway? Sleepin'?" B.A.'s voice held more than its usual share of disdain. "I keep hearin' weird sounds, like he's snorin'."

"Just leave him for now. He'll be fine," assured Hannibal. "Now, what are we looking like on fuel?"

B.A. pointed to the dash. "Jus' under a quarter tank, not countin' the reserve cans." He glowered. "I ain't goin' back there with that fool to get those cans."

Hannibal patted B.A.'s muscled forearm consolingly. "Relax, Sergeant. Even these one-horse towns always have a pump or two. Worst case is we pull over till morning, I take watch, and we all get up with the sun and some roadhouse coffee, right?"

"You had to mention coffee, didn't you?" Face groaned. "To think I could be spending this weekend with a beautiful gypsy and her sister, sipping Moroccan espresso on a veranda and watching the sunset…" His eyes took on a dreamy look. "Instead, I'm on my way to Possum Lodge, USA, which isn't even on this map, I might add."

"True, Face. But just think: Possum Lodge's own Beatrice Hawkins paid twelve grand, up front, in cash." Hannibal waved his cigar back and forth in the air. "Guess which client Mr. Lee picked for us?"

"I thought you said this was a special interest case, Hannibal," said B.A., still looking for any sign of civilization through the darkness. "What's so special 'bout a flyspeck town in Tennessee?"

"Not special to me; to Murdock." He gestured to the rear of the van. "Isn't that right, Captain?"

A sad, keening sound, more animal than human, was the only response.

"That crazy fool ain't right."

"But he did leave Billy back at the hospital this time, right, B.A.?" Hannibal grinned.

"Don't you be humorin' him, Hannibal…"

Face sighed, his mind someplace else. "Ah, Cyan, Rochelle. I hope they'll remember me when I get back."

A few more minutes passed in silence. There was only more gloom, trees, and an occasional weathered, hand-painted billboard. The keening sound had turned to an almost frantic yipping.

"What are we doing out here, anyway? You were a little vague on the details," said Face, the gypsy girls momentarily forgotten. "And how exactly did Mrs. Hawkins of the Possum Lodge Hawkinses get her hands on that kind of cash?"

Even B.A. seemed curious. "Yeah, ain't we a little outta place here?"

Hannibal turned in his seat. "Mrs. Hawkins' husband is the mayor of Possum Lodge. They came into an inheritance after her aunt died. They've been having a problem with some local slimebags running a dogfighting ring and stealing kids' pets, using them as bait. She told Mr. Lee it's a big event every Friday, lots of betting and dealing drugs at the same time. It's got her and her husband in a bind, because their constable, one Trey Prescott, also runs the ring." He puffed at his cigar, eyes filled with the antipation of a challenge. "She just needs some help to take out the garbage. I told her it was our specialty."

"Ah." Face looked disappointed. "And, oh, a blood feud between two rival gypsy clans in Newport Beach isn't as deserving of our help, right?"

B.A. scowled. "Hey, man, we talkin' 'bout kids here. Now, I don't care none for dogs, but them kids and their pets gotta have a safe place to grow up."

"That's the spirit, Sergeant. Always look on the bright side."

"You guys mind if I eat that last blueberry muffin?" Face asked, his stomach rumbling.

"Already did, Faceman. Ain't nothin' left but beef jerky," B.A. said, holding out a greasy, half-empty plastic bag.

Face stared at it in revulsion. "Oh, just remembered, I had jerky for lunch." In desperation, he fumbled around for a packet of Oreos or animal crackers that Murdock might have missed. Nothing but empty wrappers littered the floor. "C'mon, where's an all-night grocery when you need one?"

"There." Hannibal pointed to a hand-lettered sign that read _Tyrell, 10 Miles. _"Think you can hold out that long?"

"When have I ever not held out for ten miles?"

B.A. and Hannibal shared a quick, knowing glance. "You worse than that fool Murdock sometimes. We gotta stop soon anyway, 'cause we're runnin' low," said B.A. He pointed to the gauge again, now hovering just over "E."

"Captain? You still awake?" called Hannibal. "We'll be in for a pit stop pretty quick here."

"Colonel, I think it's gettin' worse." Murdock's voice was raspy and strained. "I better just hunker down here in solitude, lest I infect my brothers in arms…" There was a moan, as if he were in great pain.

"Infect? Infect with _what_?" Face was suddenly alarmed. "They are still giving you all those shots at the VA, right?"

"You better not be gettin' us sick, Crazy Man. I don' wanna be runnin' a fever, coughin' everywhere…"

"No, no, no! You just don't _understand!"_ Murdock's baseball cap and one pale hand appeared over the rear seat. He continued in an ominous, melodramatic tone. "When the moon shows her full, wan face through the firmament of the heavens, and a man feels a strange, inhuman urge coursing through his mortal veins…"

Face put on a nervous half-smile. "Let me guess, Murdock. You've been reading _Tales from the Crypt _on this trip instead of _Fantastic Four, _right?"

"Foo' probably been eatin' them overripe peaches, and bellyachin' now."

Only Hannibal seemed unbothered. "What exactly is your problem, Captain?" he asked with genuine concern.

Murdock's head popped up like a prairie dog. A prairie dog that was snarling in an almost comical way. He'd glued one of Face's false mustaches to the spot between his eyebrows to make a single, unified strip of dark brown.

"Some say it's a tale told by grannies to frighten naughty children late at night. Others say it's a mere fabrication to cover up the grim reality of four-footed beasts run amok, or more terribly, the evil in the hearts of men. But it isn't." His gaze was haunted. "It's _lycanthropy…_"

The van swerved suddenly, either because B.A. had just seen a rabbit darting across the road or maybe because he was taken aback. "Say what?" he growled, unable for the moment to turn around and glare at Murdock.

Face wore an expression somewhere between horror and sheer confusion, and Hannibal was speechless for a moment. "Lycanthropy," Hannibal finally said. "That one's actually in the DSM-V, isn't it?"

"Yep. And it's no laughing matter," Murdock continued, clambering into his usual seat next to Face, who was discreetly edging away. "You see, there's this new fella at the V.A., name of Lukas Kugelsilber. I know, real mouthful. He's right next to me in 105. So we're in the mess line last Thursday, and I notice ol' Lukas got these real hairy hands, and eyebrows that knit together. One strange guy. So he's weirding me out pretty bad, ya see, and I drop my tray, and…" Murdock buried his face in his hands and stifled a sob.

"Go on, Murdock. What happened?" urged Hannibal, ignoring B.A.'s expression of distaste.

"He…he…"

Eyes wide like a child listening to a campfire story, Face gulped. "He _bit _you?"

Murdock scowled. "Bit me? You kiddin'? No, he didn't have to. He shook my hand."

"Shook your hand? Why would he do that?"

"Maybe he was just trying to be polite," suggested Hannibal.

"Maybe he's just as crazy as you, fool!" spat B.A.

"You guys don't seem to get it! I've been cursed, doomed to transmogrify into lupine form, helpless under a full moon…" He started keening again, louder now.

Face tried not to wince. "The moon's not full, right?"

"No." Murdock stopped, and fixated him with an intense, strangely sane gaze. "But it will be on Saturday." He pointed to his deep brown eyes. "They're turnin' yellow already, aren't they, Faceman? I know they are."

"You're sure this is going to take four days, Hannibal?" Face asked, his tone begging for sympathy. "I can call Cyan and Rochelle back, you know."

"An' I ain't puttin' up wit' this jibba-jabba for four days," added B.A.

"We're going in, guys. I promised Mrs. Hawkins we'd be there early today. We're almost there, anyway," said Hannibal, taking a last deep puff on the end of his cigar. He rolled down the window, flung the butt out, and pointed. "See? Civilization, at last." A single lamppost appeared through the gloom.

The lamppost, and one lonely traffic light blinking yellow, were about the only things lit up in Tyrell in the witching hour. A stray dog trotted alongside the road in search of scraps. A large, handpainted mural on the side of an abandoned brick building urged people to _Take Sum Pride 'N Keep Tyrell Kleen!_

"So much for an all-night Safeway," Face muttered. "I guess even the Golden Arches missed the Land that Time Forgot here, Hannibal."

"We ain't goin' anywhere unless we fill up pretty quick," B.A. pointed out.

"Oh, for a taste of rare meat upon my palate," Murdock pined, as if rehearsing Shakespeare.

Hannibal just grinned. "Nope. We're in luck. Have a look," he said, indicating the billboard right next to the poorly spelled cry for civic cleanliness. _The Happy Catfish! Gas, Home Cookin', Beer, and Bait. Open 24 Hours. Y'all Drop In!_

"Isn't it good to know there's a place for the weary traveler even in this late hour? Come on, B.A., it can't be more than a mile."


	2. Southern Hospitality

The Happy Catfish turned out to be just on the outskirts of Tyrell, which was less than a full mile

The Happy Catfish turned out to be just on the outskirts of Tyrell, which was less than a full mile. B.A. swung his van into a heavily patched parking lot illuminated by a pair of streetlamps that flickered on and off, and a blinking green-and-pink neon sign that might have been stolen from one of the less desirable motels in Vegas. Several ancient pickups were parked close to the little tin-roof building. The faint strains of a Patsy Cline song were audible as B.A. rolled down his window.

"Let me guess…along with beer and bait, they've got 'Girls, Girls, Girls,' right?" Face asked with some of his usual cheek.

"Face…"

"Hannibal, I was kidding. I don't think I'd be their type, anyway, or vice versa."

"I'll start fillin' up. You wanna grab us somethin' to eat while you're in there? I'll take 2 percent if they don't have no whole milk."

"All right, B.A. I'm gonna try and put out a few feelers for our friend Mr. Prescott while we're here, too." Hannibal's eyes were mischievous.

B.A. raised one heavy fist. "Don't you be startin' a fight before I've had my milk."

"Did I say anything about a fight?" Hannibal said innocently.

"You on the jazz already and we ain't even there yet," said the big man with resignation, lowering his fist. "Jus' be careful wit' these redneck types. I got your back."

Face felt his stomach growl again. "Maybe if we've lucked out, they'll have some decent coffee along with their 'Eats,'" he said, pointing to the gaudy sign on the roof. "And if we're even luckier, they don't prepare the food and the bait in the same room."

"I wonder what kinda bait they got?" Murdock mused, scanning the cloudy sky furtively for any sign of a waxing moon.

"All right, guys, let's see how 'happy' this place is."

Inside, the Happy Catfish appeared to be the bastard offspring of a down-home diner and a hunting and fishing supply store. Patsy Cline had given way to Charlie Daniels on a banged-up jukebox in the corner. Mounted deer heads and fishing trophies stared into space with glassy, dead eyes. The stale aromas of cigarette smoke and Budweiser hung in the air, but with the hint of something pleasant and home-cooked just underneath. A few grizzled-looking sorts in tractor-supply and hunting caps slouched over a Formica bar with nearly empty glasses of beer close at hand while a youngish blonde in a teal uniform scrubbed at a stubborn stain with a dishcloth.

"Hi there," said Face to the waitress, plastering his most charming smile across his features. "We're, ah, sure hungry tonight. What's on the menu?"

The girl, who couldn't have been more than a few years out of high school, looked up from her task. "Ain't much. Jay Bruce, he don't get in till 'round five or so. He's the best fry cook in the county. 'Course, he's also my second cousin," she offered, meeting Face's dazzling smile and batting her eyes.

Hannibal pulled two twenties from his pocket. "That's all right. We do need a full tank for that van outside. This should just about cover it. And we'll settle for coffee if that's all you've got."

"Okay. I think I can scare up summa that. You boys want I should check the kitchen?"

"Won't be necessary. I saw some lovely pecan pie in that bake case…"

"Oh, that! My momma makes that herself. You wanna try some?"

"Love to." Face tried not to stare at the name badge perched atop her curvy bosom. "Thanks, uh, Millie Rose?"

"Call me Rosey! Millie's my granny's name and I never liked her. One slice comin' right up," she chirped.

"We'll take two," interrupted Hannibal.

Murdock stood off to one side, hands in his jacket pockets, eyeballing a mounted stuffed rabbit on the wall with feral intensity. He hadn't said a word.

"Uh, does your buddy in the ballcap there want anything?" Rosie asked.

"You probably don't have what he wants," sighed Face.

She shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.

Hannibal took the barstool next to Face, and idly unwrapped one of the packets of saltine crackers from a bowl. "Don't get any ideas, Face," he murmured.

"What? Her?" Face, looking scandalized, pointed to the swinging double door. "Look, Hannibal, she's all right on the eyes, but the Brains Fairy sure didn't stop by her house. When have I ever gotten ideas over someone like that?"

A wicked grin. "Let me count the ways."

"Just let it go, all right? I ordered pecan pie; I didn't ask her out! I'm hungry!"

"Remember, we've got to be careful down here. We're in hostile territory. For all you know, she could be Prescott's girl." Hannibal crunched on his saltines, looking thoughtful at the same time.

"Relax. No sweat."

"Here we go," said Rosey, flouncing past with a two plates and a steaming pot of coffee. "Dig in, boys. If you don't mind me bein' nosy, what's a couple 'a Yankees doin' in Tyrell at four AM anyhow?" She leaned on the counter, exposing a little more of her ample cleavage and watching Face's eyes stray.

"Oh, uh…"

"We're not staying long. You wouldn't happen to know how much farther Possum Lodge is?" asked Hannibal.

"Keep goin' right down 41, hang a left by the old Mathers place, then another left where Yarbrough's Garage used to be, and you're there. Maybe eight miles." She frowned. "Possum Lodge's a lot smaller'n Tyrell. Why there?"

"The mayor's wife needs some help around the house."

"Oh." The frown persisted. "Y'all don't look like handymen."

Hannibal's eyes twinkled. "You'd be surprised."

"In fact, we're pretty good at that kind of thing," proffered Face, adding a wink.

"Your buddy there…what's he do? He's a little, uh…" She pointed to an oblivious Murdock, who was now face-to-face with a raccoon.

"Weird? Strange? Don't worry, he's harmless. Unless it's a full moon," Face said only half-jokingly.

"Oh. Just checkin'. Y'all enjoy that pie," said Rosey.

"Rosey," asked Hannibal, leaning in closer to the bar, "you wouldn't happen to know a guy named Trey Prescott, would you? He's the constable in Possum Lodge, and Mrs. Hawkins told us to ask for him. Does he ever come by?"

She blanched, and the hand holding the coffeepot trembled. "Oh, yessir, I know that sumbitch," she said, lowering her own voice so that the other patrons couldn't hear. "'Scuse my language. He ain't nothin' but a snake what's got a badge, thass what he is. Him'n that damn half-breed friend of his, Ike Redthorn, gettin' loaded and piss-mean, goin' up into them woods every Friday…" She put down the pot. "Y'all ain't…you know, FBI men, somethin' like that? They done stole my little niece's pug Dottie, 'course, we couldn't prove nothin'. And ol' Trey's the law 'round here, sad to say."

Face and Hannibal shared a quick glance. "No, miss, we're not FBI. But we are 'house cleaners,'" said Hannibal, "and we're going to try and put a stop to all this."

"Nothing the four of us can't handle," grinned Face. "Say, where is B.A., anyway?"

"You wouldn't happen to have any bottles of milk, would you?" asked Hannibal. "For our other friend."

Rosey perked up. "I think I might just, but it'll be out in the icehouse. Gimme a minute or two." She bustled back through the swinging doors.

The man sitting beside Face turned, as if just now noticing his two bar-mates. He looked like a semi-professional wrestler who'd been fired for debauchery and forced to work at hard labor outdoors for the last ten years of his life. His already ugly face was further disfigured by a weal on his right cheek and a yellowed set of stumpy teeth. A filthy bandanna with a rebel flag motif was tied around his greasy hair. "Milk? Lookie, fellas, we gotta couple 'a city boys wantin' milk. Prob'ly cookies too." He and the four other equally rough yokels shared a harsh laugh. He stood; he was easily six feet four. "This place ain't for city boys," he warned in a slurred voice.

"How kind." Out of habit, Hannibal reached for a cigar in his mouth that wasn't there. Instead, he put on a serene smile. "If we encounter any, we'll be sure to let them know."

"Fact is, ain't too safe for city boys or Yankees t'all 'round here." The big man slammed one set of tattooed knuckles into an open hand. "Why don't y'all just scat now, and take your damn milk on the way out" Another guttural, humorless laugh.

"Hannibal." Face had tensed visibly in his seat, and pulled at his colonel's sleeve. Hannibal just shrugged.

"Won't you guys at least let us finish our coffee? After all I've heard about Southern hospitality, Face…"

"Yeah…" He sighed, already knowing what was coming.

"I'm givin' you till three to git. One, two…"

"Amazing. Gorgeous George here actually knows how to count!"

"Three!"

Right as the behemoth's fist came forward, Hannibal ducked and swung his nearly full mug of coffee directly at his attacker's midsection. Roaring in pain, the big local staggered backward. Hannibal followed with a fierce uppercut and a left hook, which sent the other crashing into a display of fishing rods.

The other men charged at Face, who'd sprung to his feet like a cat. The first blow, by a trollish-looking man in fatigues and a John Deere cap, caught him squarely under the chin, but he quickly recovered and dished out a couple of quick jabs. When the troll staggered toward him again, Face smashed the now-empty barstool over his head.

"Not the face. Please!" he prayed fervently as the remaining three converged on him.

All but forgotten, Murdock yelped and sprung at one of his friend's attackers. A clumsy roundhouse kick was aimed at the rangy pilot; he easily dodged it and planted one of his own firmly in the other man's midsection. The local went down like an empty sack of grain, with a pained _oof!_

"B.A.!"

In response to his friends' almost simultaneous call for aid, B.A. Baracus appeared in the door like an avenging angel. He sauntered in to face the remaining two barflies, one of whom clenched a billy club and the other what appeared to be brass knuckles. The club-wielder screamed and swung his weapon wildly. B.A. did what he'd done so well many times before; dodged, weaved, and waited patiently for an opening. When it came, he launched several jabs, a powerful crosshook, then tossed his opponent almost casually into a table, which broke in two. Mr. Brass Knuckles was right behind, hissing in rage. B.A., thinking quickly, grabbed the eight-point buck's head mounted on the wall behind him. In one fluid motion, he slammed it down over the overalls-clad man's shoulders so hard that he appeared to be some strange human-Bambi hybrid. With a muffled shriek, he crumpled to the ground.

Stepping over the various forms on the floor groaning in pain, B.A. scowled and thrust one finger into Hannibal's grinning face. "What'd I tell you? I don't like no fights before I've had my milk, Hannibal!"

"Take it easy, B.A. It's on its way," said Hannibal blithely, as if discussing the weather. "You guys all right?"

Face brushed at the front of his shirt and rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, no problem. Did you smell that guy's breath? Guess they don't sell much Listerine down here."

"Murdock?"

"A-OK, Colonel. Good thing for them it's not a full moon."

Rosey re-appeared then, and almost dropped the quart bottle of milk she carried in surprise. "What'n the Sam Hill happened in here?"

Face, a guilty smile quirking at his lips, raised his coffee mug. "Sorry about the mess. We, ah, we just had a bit of an introduction to some of the, uh, local color."

"You'll…you'll…" It was the leader of the group, sounding like a gaffed fish from his prone position. "You'll pay for this!"

"Shut up, sucka!" B.A. snapped, raising one fist. The Neanderthal looked up at him and cringed.

"These gentlemen were a little less than hospitable, miss. We were acting in self-defense. Sorry for the trouble. We'll pay for any damages," offered Hannibal, reaching into his pocket for more twenties.

The waitress only shook her head and giggled. "Naw, don't worry about it. Ol' Jay Bruce and our bossman'll deal with it when they get in, and I'll tell 'em the truth.. Them fellas been askin' for a bruising for awhile anyhow. Y'all just better go 'fore they get here." She held one finger to her lips. "How was that pecan pie, by the way?"

"Delicious," said Face, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. "Don't suppose you could share the recipe?"

"'Fraid not. Momma'd kill me. Y'all want somethin' for the road, though?"

"I want my milk," B.A. said with surprising calm, and reached for the bottle she'd brought. He popped the cap off and drained most of it in a single swallow. Wiping his upper lip, he turned to Rosey. "Y'all got some good milk down here. Sorry I missed that pecan pie."

With his head askance, Murdock gave Rosey an odd stare. "Would you perchance to have any steak_ tartare_, or a filet mignon done extra rare?" he asked in his poshest boarding school accent.

"Huh?"

Face held up his hands like a football referee. "Don't mind him. He's, ah, not feeling himself these days. Maybe just some sausage, or bacon?"

"That I think I could round up. Hope it's okay cold."

"So long as it's rare…rare…" His tongue lolled out of his mouth.

"Murdock!"

"Whatever meat you got, muchacha. I like it rare, though."

Hannibal took out another bill and placed it on the counter. "For especially good service. Now, about those directions to Possum Lodge again?"

She repeated them, and Face jotted notes on a napkin. "So, it's left at one obsolete landmark, then another at a place that burned ten years ago?" he asked with a shrug.

"Yeah, y'all got it. And say hi to the Hawkinses for me, y'hear? They're nice folks, go to the same church as my niece and hers." Rosey's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "And kick ol' Trey's ass clear down to 'Bama for me, would ya? Even if you ain't FBI, or KGB, somethin' like that…"

"You could file us under 'something like that,'" said Hannibal with amusement. "Again, sorry for the mess. No chance I could buy some cigars here, is there?

"Nothin' but some Marlboros and a few Luckies that Jay Bruce likes. I never touch 'em," she confessed. "Sorry. Be careful, now, y'hear?" She stared, her gaze settling on Face.

He caught it and smiled back. "We're pretty good at that, too."

"Come on, guys, we've got clients to meet." Hannibal swallowed the last of the coffee Rosey had poured for him. "Miss, it's been a real smash."

"Thanks for the milk." B.A. offered a rare smile.

"Until we meet again, Rosey."

"Hey! What about my meat?" Murdock's eyes widened.

"Oh, yeah. Almost forgot." Rosey dashed back to the kitchen, and returned moments later with a plate wrapped in paper towels. "Deer sausage. Jay Bruce's own. Real spicy, too. And some doughnuts for your big friend too."

Hannibal shepherded Murdock, who was looking at the food like a starving lion looks at a sickly zebra, quickly away. "Perfect. Oh, and we'll try to swing by again if we get the chance."

"Y'all do that." And with that, the A-Team was gone.

The big man who'd attacked Hannibal finally dragged himself up to a kneeling pose, and massaged his still-sore head. "Who were them guys? Trey ain't gonna like them comin' in here, pushin' us around," he complained.

Millie Rose faced him with all the ferocity her five-feet-nothing could manage. "You'd best count on it, Orey Grissom. I think those fellas mean business."


	3. A New Mongoose In Town

"Mmm, Faceman, you really oughtta try some of this sausage

"Mmm, Faceman, you really oughtta try some of this sausage. A delight upon any palate, especially one as unique as mine," said Murdock through a mouthful of spicy venison. "Almost as good as gettin' it fresh off the hoof."

Watching his friend stuffing himself, Face felt slightly queasy. "On second thought, B.A., I might go with that beef jerky you offered me before."

"That must be the Mathers place there," said Hannibal, indicating a log cabin that had probably once been comfortable, but was now derelict and boarded up, covered in a thick tangle of kudzu, with a few squirrels scampering to and fro. "Take a left, B.A."

He did, onto a two-lane road barely wide enough for a horse-drawn cart. He kept the van at a snail's pace. The sun had finally made its appearance, breaking through a veil of clouds onto a dappled canopy of trees rich with the last of the autumn colors. Leaves fluttered down like tickertape on a politician's motorcade.

"Them guys back at that dive didn't seem too happy 'bout us bein' here," B.A. observed, turning to face Hannibal.

"Did you really expect them to buy us drinks?" Hannibal answered with his usual cheer. "Besides, we got their attention. It'll be easier to draw out Prescott and his cockroach cronies now that they know we're here. You did say you brought that new device you were working on, right, B.A.?"

The big man snorted. "Yeah, sure did. Ain't it a little too early in the mornin' for you bein' on the jazz like this?"

"Not at all, Sergeant. You didn't have a cup of Miss Rosey's coffee, did you?" Hannibal flashed a grin. "It was the kind that would have put hair on even the Aquamaniac's scaly chest."

B.A. suppressed a smile of his own. "No. Her doughnuts weren't too bad, though, man."

"Hey, guys, have a look," said Face.

As the van crested a small hill, the A-Team peered down into a bowl-shaped valley. A cluster of homes and businesses sat huddled around a country church, pretty as a postcard in the golden sunlight. Only a few Jersey cows in a nearby pasture seemed to be awake at this early hour.

"Possum Lodge, Tennessee, population 782. Plus four, for now," Face announced, reciting from the file Hannibal had given him back in L.A. "I wonder if they have a Kiwanis Club?"

"Or a chapter of Lycanthropes Anonymous?" wondered Murdock.

"Oh, shut up, fool," shot B.A. "You better not start actin' like no wolf man in front of these people."

"I'm safe for now, big guy. Sun's up and everything…"

"Four days wit' this crazy rap, Hannibal! I ain't gonna take it!" B.A. pointed accusingly back at Murdock.

Hannibal looked to his cohorts sternly, then to his wristwatch. "Speaking of our client, we're right on time. Mrs. Hawkins is over at First and Sycamore. Let's not keep her waiting."

There were only a finite number of named streets in Possum Lodge, which by comparison made Tyrell seem like Riverside. B.A. had no trouble finding their destination as Face read from his notes. The brick Craftsman house at which he pulled over, whose mailbox was stamped _Hawkins, _had probably been considered luxurious during the Depression, when it had been built. Now it was just comfortable. A white picket fence surrounded a slightly browned lawn, and beds of pansies added some color late in October. A flag on the porch fluttered lightly in the morning breeze.

"I can see it now. Mr. Hawkins is a farmer with glasses and a pitchfork, and his wife wears her hair in a bun and stands next to him. Right?" joked Face.

"Faceman, you been readin' that art book of yours too much," B.A. retorted as he killed the van's engine. "They just nice hardworkin' people who need our help."

A woman appeared on the wraparound porch. Her hair was cropped short rather than styled in a bun, and she wore a simple skirt and sweater with an apron instead of severe Victorian dress. She looked like the perfect image of everyone's favorite aunt or grandmother. She waved and called to Hannibal as he opened his passenger door.

"Mr. Smith? Is that you? Goodness, you actually made it! Any trouble gettin' here?"

Face looked to Hannibal, who in turn glanced at B.A. Murdock, looking slightly stunned, was staring somewhere off to the side of the house. "No, no trouble, ma'am. We did have to stop back in Tyrell just a while ago. But your directions were fine," said Hannibal, ignoring his men's slightly annoyed looks.

"This is too much! The A-Team, right here in my own Possum Lodge! Hayward…that's Mr. Hawkins…he'll never believe this, laws, no…" Mrs. Beatrice Hawkins looked giddy, and her wrinkled features for a moment showed something of the pretty young woman she'd once been. "But oh, where are my manners? Please, c'mon in and I'll introduce you."

"Much obliged," Hannibal said, the others trailing.

"You smell that?" Murdock muttered to Face as they crossed the yard. "I think they got some kinda dog here, a real big fella."

"Can it, Murdock," Face whispered back _sotto voce. _"I happen to agree with B.A. on this one. We want these people to like us. If you have to go to the bathroom, please go inside. No fire hydrants, or anything like that."

"Faceman, really. Fire hydrants?" The pilot looked affronted. "What kind of guy do you think I am?

B.A., a step behind, glowered. "I think you're a guy wit' a concussion if you don't shut up and behave yo'self."

"Here we are. Y'all come on in," said Mrs. Hawkins, not hearing a word of their conversation. "Straight through this hall, and the sitting room's just on your right. I'll let Mr. Hawkins know y'all are here." She held the door for her guests.

Inside the Hawkins home was just as comfortable and inviting as its all-American, Norman Rockwell exterior. In the sitting area, Hannibal took a grey chintz armchair. B.A. sat in the one opposite, while Face and Murdock shared a faded pink loveseat. Mrs. Hawkins continued to beam.

"Would y'all care for some redcurrant scones? Right out of the oven?"

"That's very kind of you," said Hannibal.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Hawkins came back with a platter of scones, tea and cream, along with her husband in tow. He was the kind of stocky, earthy Scots-Irish type whose ancestors had probably first settled the land two hundred years ago. His weathered face crinkled in a smile.

"Hayward Hawkins. So you're John Smith. Missus been tellin' me a lot 'bout you fellas." The two men exchanged a firm handshake.

"It's a pleasure, sir. I'd like you to meet Templeton Peck," Hannibal said, indicating Face, "B.A. Baracus, and H.M. Murdock." They each favored the mayor of Possum Lodge with a nod.

"B.A., H.M., all these initials. You fellas got first names?" asked Mrs. Hawkins, pouring tea from a silver pot.

B.A., a bite of scone in his mouth, swallowed quickly. "Momma calls me Bosco. Everyone else, jus' B.A. will do."

Murdock's eyes darted to the tea service. "Is…is that real silver?" he asked nervously, ignoring the question at hand.

"Why, no, hon. Just silver plate. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Murdock let out a sigh of relief and accepted the cup of tea she passed him.

"We affectionately call him 'Howling Mad.' Long story," Face explained, sipping at his own tea and smiling as if in apology.

"Oh."

Hannibal cleared his throat. "Mayor Hawkins, back in L.A., your wife told me a little about this ongoing problem you're having with Trey Prescott and his gang. Now, how long has this been going on?"

Mrs. Hawkins spoke first. "'Bout since that no-good Trey got himself elected constable. Last December, that was, back when ol' Cale Garrett passed on and they held a special election. Nobody else wanted the post, see. We aren't exactly the size of Chattanooga, or even Fairwoods. He seemed like a nice fella at first, talkin' about truth and justice, but…" She sighed wearily. "He don't care about upholdin' the law, just about twistin' it for his own sake. Right, sugar?" she asked, elbowing her husband.

"Yep, that's just it. Takin' them pit bulls up in the woods and havin' their sick idea of some fun." Mr. Hawkins frowned. "Bunch 'a devils is what they are."

B.A. put down his cup and leaned forward. "Ain't there somethin' you can do as mayor of this town?"

The Hawkinses looked at him, then at each other. "I wish it were that simple, hon. Constable up this way has a lot more authority that we do. There's no regular police force here, just him and that Ike Redthorn. Plus we just ain't spring chickens anymore," admitted Mrs. Hawkins.

"And what does the county sheriff have to say about all this?" asked Face.

The mayor chuckled. "Vic Ames only comes up to Possum Lodge when Ginny del Greco has her free beer nights at the Triple Shot. Which is to say, once in a blue moon. He's also an old fraternity buddy of Trey's daddy, Junior. We're pretty far down his list of things to do," he admitted sadly.

"And you don't have anyone sympathetic to you? No one who'll help at all?" prompted Hannibal.

"That's why we finally looked you fellas up. Everybody here's just too scared, what with all the pets that've been disappearin', and the like. They're afraid it'll be one of their lambs or calves next 'stead of a puppy or kitten that goes missin'. We're farmers, Mr. Smith, not fighters. And Trey and his cronies are meaner'n a box full of copperheads," Mrs. Hawkins said as she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Thank God we still got Took out there, he always lets us know when trouble's comin'…"

Murdock rejoined the stream of reality for a moment. He perked up and eagerly clasped his hands together. "I knew you had a dog, I could just tell! What kind? I just love dogs…"

B.A. glared at him as if to say _Watch out, sucker!_, and Face looked as though he wanted to disappear into the pink velvet. Hannibal shook his head like a kindly headmaster.

"It was Captain Murdock here who persuaded us to take this assignment, Mrs. Hawkins. He's quite the animal lover."

"Oh, is that so?" Mrs. Hawkins glanced fondly at Murdock, who was now rocking back and forth and grinning like a loon. "If you like, sweetie, you're welcome to take ol' Took his breakfast. He's the big husky in the run to the side of the house. Just be careful he don't lick you to death, y'hear?"

Murdock didn't need a second invitation. He was up and gone in a streak of brown leather and khaki. Some of the yipping noises he'd made earlier in the van could be heard as he made his way back outside.

"He seems, oh, what's the word?" Mr. Hawkins put a finger to his forehead. "A little different?"

"He grows on you after a while," Hannibal said lightly, finishing off his tea.

"I'll never get used to that crazy fool," muttered B.A.

"Murdock's an American original," Face agreed.

"So, y'all are gonna help us? The four of you against Trey and Ike and all them?" asked Mr. Hawkins hopefully.

Hannibal nodded and stood. "Consider us on the case. They may be a box full of copperheads, but they're going to find that there's a mongoose in town who's looking to even the score." He shook hands once again with the mayor and his wife. "We're going to pay a little visit to the constable's office this morning and see what we find. We appreciate your hospitality, and we'll be checking in soon."

B.A. and Face thanked their hosts in turn. "Don't worry, momma. We'll be fine out there, and we gonna make this Trey dude pay," B.A. said, towering over petite Mrs. Hawkins.

"But I am worried," she confessed as the big man comforted her. "Last one that tried to bring down that ring was old man O'Faolan, and we never saw him again. He was a strange old bird, to be sure, but that's no reason to wish harm on him, bless his heart."

Face, who'd been straightening his tie in a mirror on the wall, turned around. "Uh, never seen again? What happened to him?"

The mayor of Possum Lodge shrugged. "We just ain't sure. We never found nary a trace of him."

Hannibal put a hand around Face's shoulders. "Think of it as an added challenge, Lieutenant. An enemy that actually thinks, albeit in a backwoods sort of way, and fights back, instead of those lazy fat-cat developers from that Beddington job last month. Right?"

"Oh, right. An enemy like the VC, you mean?"

"VC? Y'all fought in Nam?" Mrs. Hawkins asked, her curiousity aroused.

"That's right. Another long story," sighed Face. "But I'm sure I can tell it to you another day over some more of those scones." He repeated the circle-and-forefinger gesture he'd given Rosey earlier and smiled.

"If you'd be so kind as to give us directions to the constable's office, that would be helpful," said Hannibal. As Mrs. Hawkins spoke, Face scribbled them down on the napkin from the Happy Catfish.

They repeated their goodbyes, leaving behind a stoic Mr. Hawkins holding his wife, who looked as though she were sending her own sons off to war. On the porch, Hannibal pulled a cigar out and bit off the tip. Face's jaw dropped.

"I thought you said you ran out?"

Hannibal grinned. "Always keep a reserve for the direst of emergencies, Face. This qualifies as a dire emergency." He lit up and inhaled gratefully.

B.A. put a hand to his forehead. The sunlight was brighter now that it had crested the hills surrounding Possum Lodge. "Gonna be a dire emergency if that fool Murdock don't get back here pretty quick…"

"Captain! We're ready to go!" shouted Hannibal.

Around the corner of the Hawkins home came two blurs: one the lanky form of H.M. Murdock, and the other an elegant Siberian husky with a Frisbee in its mouth. Both drew up, panting, in front of the porch.

"Looks like you've made a friend, Murdock," quipped Face.

"Fool, what you been doin'?" B.A. demanded.

Murdock paused to catch his breath, then spoke. "Took…Took here, for your information, B.A., is no ordinary dog. He hails from a long line of proud lupine ancestors too. He was just tellin' me it's not really so bad, once you get used to chasing rabbits and foxes, and dealing with fleas…" The husky sat on its haunches and made a soft _whuff!_

"See? He's my _brother_!" Murdock spouted, dropping to all fours and imitating the sound.

B.A. was not amused. He snatched Murdock's shirt front, bringing him back up to an upright stance. "I ain't got time for your crazy talk out here. Now you made us take this case, and these nice people…" He thrust one hand back at the house, "they countin' on us to help their town, not countin' on some crazy wolf man runnin' around diggin' up their flowers and eatin' dog food!"

Murdock swallowed hard, eyes wide. "All right, big fella. Lemme go. I let Took there have all the food. I swear I did."

"Hannibal, this fool's hopeless. Almost wish he'd brought his invisible dog 'stead of this jibba-jabba." B.A. let go of his comrade.

Hannibal pulled at his cigar in thought. "Guys, we've got a lot to do this morning. B.A., I'm probably going to need that device of yours."

"Yeah, I'll start settin' it up."

"Face?"

"Hmmm?"

"I think it's time Professor Albert Colston and his graduate assistant paid a visit to Possum Lodge. What do you think?"

Face's bright smile matched Hannibal's own as Murdock raised his head to the sky to start yelping again.


	4. Shaking Things Up

"Stop messing with it, okay

"Stop messing with it, okay? You look fine," Face chided Murdock as they climbed the steps of the little brick building whose sign read _Constabulary, Town of Possum Lodge: To Protect and Serve. _He wore a drab tweed suit much more dowdy than was his usual jaunty preference, along with a porkpie hat and a pair of round-frame glasses. He held a large leather case in his left hand. "Follow my lead and everything will be OK."

Murdock looked glum without his usual T-shirt and bomber jacket. He'd slicked back his hair in a halfhearted attempt to look "academic." He was currently tugging the lapels of his dark suit as if trying to ward off evil spirits. "What if they don't go for this, Faceman? And what if that doohickey the Big Guy was tinkerin' with doesn't work?"

"It will," Face assured him, with one last adjustment of his bow tie. "Shall we?"

"After you, _Professor._"

The two men stepped into the reception area, where a young brunette about Millie Rose's age was busily absorbed in an old issue of _People. _Tinny-sounding country music came from a transistor radio on her desk. Face cleared his throat discreetly, and the receptionist dropped the magazine and blinked in surprise.

"Well howdy, y'all. What can I do to help you boys?" "Can" came out sounding more like "kin."

"Good day to you, Miss," said Face, briefly doffing his hat. "I'm Professor Albert Colston, University of South Carolina, Department of Seismology. This gentleman's my graduate assistant, Chauncey Swain," he said, gesturing to Murdock. Face's faux-cultured southern accent was a curious cross between Rhett Butler and Foghorn Leghorn.

"Professor? Hoo, boy. I never even got my high school diploma," the girl said with awe in her voice. "What's a university fella like you doin' up here all the way from South Caroline?"

She didn't know, of course, that Face had previously played Colston last month, as a taciturn New Englander, to a room full of suspicious would-be land developers just outside Long Beach. Nor did she question for a moment his accent and manners. He smiled at her, seeing her flutter her mascaraed eyelashes and sigh. With his right hand, he opened the briefcase and dug out a manila file thick with paperwork.

"I'm afraid I've got both good news and bad news, Miss."

Her green eyes widened. "What's the bad news? And what kinda professor'd you say you were? Size-somethin'?"

"Seismology: the study of the movement and constant change of the earth's crust, Miss. I'm one of the foremost experts in the Southeast. Now, I won't bore you with all the technical jargon and so forth of my trade, but suffice to say I've been sent here on special assignment by the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development." Face continued, producing a sheaf of stapled papers. "We're here to investigate this building and the surrounding structures for architectural soundness, make sure y'all are properly up to date with building codes, asbestos regulations…"

The receptionist blinked, uncomprehending. "I'm not catchin' your drift, mister. What the heck're you talkin' about?"

Murdock spoke up, his eyes going wide in a look Face had seen many times over the last fifteen years. "Quakes. We're talking about _earthquakes_," he explained as if telling the girl that she'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

"Chauncey's quite right, Miss. Haven't you felt any tremors down here? Pictures shakin' on the walls, toothbrush rattlin' in its little holder?" When she shook her head no, Face gasped in horror. "Oh, no, that means y'all are due for the Big One. Could happen at any time. It might be the kind what'll make those big San Andreas quakes look like a kid's birthday party! Aren't you aware of the faultline?"

"Faultline?" Her face had gone an unhealthy shade of pale.

Face unrolled a map he'd brought with him showing Possum Lodge and the surrounding area. Before he came, he'd taken special care to trace several lines of red and blue Sharpie right through the valley. "This here," he pointed to the main red line, "is the Lower Cumberland Fault. Dormant since the dinosaurs bought the farm. But this one," he indicated a smaller blue line, "it's an offshoot, the Colston Fault…I discovered it in July…well, it's quite active. Been detecting up little hairline movements every now and then, probably too soft for y'all to even notice. But those could pick up in time, and…"

Murdock spread his arms, then flailed, mimicking a collapsing building.

"Good Lord…wh…what are we gonna do?" stammered the girl.

"First of all, as I said, there is good news. This constabulary was unknowingly built right over the Colston Fault," he said, holding up his hands as she started to open her mouth, "but with the necessary steps, we two will be able to fully inspect and certify y'all's facility as fully earthquake safe. We'll need to conduct a full sweep of the area, but seeing as this is the bull's eye, so to speak, y'all are our first priority."

The addled receptionist plopped back down in her chair. "Oh, then, please go right on ahead! I just can't imagine bein' in a building what's about to fall down, no sir. How, uh, how long you think you'll be? Mr. Prescott's out right now, chasin' them deer poachers up near Split Log Holler again."

Face pulled the phony glasses off and placed them in his breast pocket. "Never rush a scientist at work, Miss…?"

"I'm Frannie Nalen," she volunteered.

"Well, Miss Nalen, Chauncey and I are going to conduct a full and thorough analysis of this building's soundness. Probably just a few hours, give or take, and you'll be right as rain. Think of the peace of mind it'll bring y'all in the end," said Face smoothly.

"Oh, well, I suppose that ain't too bad. You want I should stay while y'all do, y'know, whatever it is?"

"No. Absolutely not!" interrupted Murdock, an intense look coming into his dark eyes. "Do you have any idea the sensitive nature of a pH test, young lady? How the exhalations of one individual can skew the measurements irrevocably?" He moved toward her, looking more like Dr. Frankenstein than Dr. Swain.

She gulped. "I don't reckon so, no sir."

Feeling satisfied, Face replaced his paperwork and snapped the briefcase shut. "If you're worried about compensation for lost time, Miss Nalen, the federal government will see to that. Meantime, why don't you relax and get yourself some coffee down at Honey B's," he referred to the little café they'd passed on the town square, "and we'll come let you know when our work here's finished? Now, there's only three rooms here, am I not mistaken?"

Frannie picked up her purse and the issue of _People _she'd been reading, and nodded. "Yessir, just this here room, and Mr. Trey's office and the holding cell in back. It's empty right now; no need to worry there."

"Much obliged, Miss Nalen. We thank you for your kind cooperation," said Face, emphasizing the first syllable of his last word to sound more genteel. As she headed out the door, he reached up to drop the porkpie hat along with his southern-fried persona. He pulled a placard from the case that read "_Do Not Disturb: Inspection In Progress_" and placed it inside the glass on the front door. "Okay, Murdock, let's get to work. You take the back office, and I'll start looking in here."

In the alley behind the Triple Shot Tavern, B.A. sat in the driver's seat of his parked van, bejeweled fingers hovering over the red button on an innocuous-looking remote control. "I wish that sucka Prescott'd show up. I've been wantin' to use this for real," he said.

"You're sure it'll work?" Hannibal asked, puffing on one of several cigars he'd bought earlier from Sweet Lou's Grocery. It wasn't his usual high-quality brand, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Yeah, man. Those guys gonna get a wake-up call they ain't never gonna forget," B.A. said, a smile beginning to form on his lips. "Courtesy of the A-Team."

"Just be patient, B.A. We've got to wait for Face's signal."

The big man looked for a moment like a child eagerly awaiting Christmas Eve. "If I gotta, then, all right…"

"I got their phone tapped just fine, Faceman, but I'm not findin' anything. Nada, zero, zip." called Murdock in frustration from the back of the constable's office. "No silver bullets, though," he added with some relief.

Face had already looked through the reception area with his well-trained eyes, and come up equally empty. Trey Prescott may have been just a country boy, but he appeared to be a cautious country boy. No documents, maps, bundles of cash, or anything else in the office was present to indicate that the lawman was secretly fronting a dogfighting ring and dabbling in drugs. Face had even brought B.A.'s portable metal detector with him, which hadn't indicated a safe in the walls or underneath the floor.

"Anywhere else you think they might have something stashed?" Face asked while looking under the cushions of a sofa for the second time. "I'm running out of ideas here."

Murdock rejoined his friend in the lobby. "I guess I could try and _sniff_ somethin' out. My sense of smell is sure goin' haywire down here." He flung down onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair, which had already started to revert to its normal flyaway look. After a moment, he suddenly sat bolt upright. "I think I got it! Did you see that big ol' storage shed out back when we came in, Face?"

"Yeah…" Face stroked his chin nervously, trying to guess where Murdock's erratic train of thought was chugging this time. "What about it?"

"Sniffing, Faceman. What's a dog do when it wants to hide a nice meaty bone?"

Face grinned. "It's worth a look. I'm letting you dig, though…"

The familiar joyfully demented look crept back into Murdock's eyes. "I just knew Took was tryin' to tell me something important 'sides how to catch squirrels."

"You see anything yet?" It was probably the fourth time he'd said it, but Face had to check. He'd begun to sweat not just because the sun had come out in force, but for the simple fact that Murdock and his heaps of dirt stood in plain sight of several businesses in Possum Lodge. Luckily none of the few passersby had seemed to notice thus far.

Murdock stopped momentarily and leaned on the shovel he was using. "It'd help if I knew what I was lookin' for, muchacho." He squinted up into the sunlight.

"Maybe we should try another spot?" suggested Face. "We're gonna have to explain this, you know…"

"I have no doubt you'll enthrall and amaze these rustic varlets, O loquacious one." The other used his posh boarding school voice for the second time that day.

"Yeah. Getting these bumpkins to believe it is something else altogether."

"What about the shed?" Murdock pointed, as if noticing it for the first time. "You wanna look in there?"

Face let out a sigh. "There's a high-gauge lock on it. It's gonna take me a little time without the proper tools."

There seemed no other alternative, so he rummaged in his leather briefcase for a metal lockpick. As he did so, the little signaling device B.A. had given him began to beep. When he pulled it out, he saw it was illuminated with three small red lights. He swore under his breath and quickly stashed it back.

"Murdock, we got company. It's probably Prescott, so just let me handle this." He quickly re-adjusted his hat and tie.

The _skreek_ of old brakes was audible as a blue pickup with chaser lights on top swung into the parking lot. Two men got out, each of whom wore .38s on their hips. One was a wiry redhead in his early thirties with a mean look on his narrow, foxlike face. His companion, a dark-haired man of medium height with high cheekbones and striking blue eyes, followed close behind.

"This here's private property," said the red-haired man, his country twang thicker than anyone they'd yet encountered in Possum Lodge. "You fellas got a permit, sump'm like that?"

Face, who'd been pretending to study a surveyor's map, slipped right back into his Albert Colston persona. "I should be askin' y'all the same question. Do you have any notion how hard it is to locate a main water line with these maps outta date like they are?"

"Water line?" The first man, whom Face noticed had a small skull tattoo on his neck, seemed confused. "Ain't you dressed a little fancy for diggin'?"

"Are you Constable Trey Prescott?"

"Yeah. Who the hell are you?" A flush came over Prescott's cheeks.

Face reached for his glasses again. "Professor Albert Colston, University of South Carolina. That fella there's Chauncey Swain, my graduate assistant. For your information, Constable, we're in the process of inspecting and certifying this building and the surrounding environs," he indicated the storage shed, "for seismological readiness and overall soundness. Which does, unfortunately, involve inspecting this here septic system as well." He shot an exasperated glance at Prescott.

The constable, taken aback, scratched his head. "Them county folks usually handle this kinda thing. I didn't hear nothin' 'bout an inspection."

"'Didn't hear about an inspection,'" Face said, stalling for time and throwing his hands in the air. "When I get back to Columbia, I'm gonna have a word with my secretary…"

"Look, mister, we got business to take care of. What the hell kinda inspection is this?" Prescott asked with irritation creeping into his thick drawl.

He didn't notice Face reaching into his pocket for the signaling device.

B.A. Baracus raised an eyebrow. The twin of the signaler he'd given Face beeped and glowed bright green. Then, he grinned from ear to ear.

"Ready, Hannibal?"

"Go for it, B.A."

He pushed the red button.

"Y'all don't seem to understand. I want y'all to pack on up and git outta here," Prescott continued to chide Face, who was now peering down into the fourth hole Murdock had created.

Face gave the man the kind of smile he normally reserved for his occasional roles as a man of the cloth. "Don't you worry, Mr. Prescott, soon as we find that mainline and make sure it's not cracked, or in danger of becoming so, we'll be out of y'all's hair and you can go about your business."

"You still ain't answered my question. What the hell y'all inspectin' for?"

It started as a deep rumble, as if a large aircraft were flying low somewhere in the vicinity. Then it started to get louder. The shovel Murdock was holding visibly began to vibrate, as did the pile of crates stacked outside the shed. Face, Murdock, and the two lawmen looked around with varying degrees of alarm. When he looked down, Face saw that the loose scree beside the hole was dancing like Mexican jumping beans.

"Oh, God, it's the Colston-Swain fault! We're all gonna die! RUN!" bellowed Murdock, abandoning his shovel and flinging his arms in the air. He started to dash back to the main building, but Face grabbed him by the collar and stood as firmly as he could in place.

"Holy shit! Is…is that a _quake_?" Prescott shouted as a few of the small glass windows in the shed shattered. His deputy, who hadn't yet said a word, uttered a low curse in a foreign tongue and tried to remain standing upright.

After thirty seconds or so, the rumbling and shaking stopped as quickly as it had started. Everyone looked around, stunned. Finally Face spoke.

"Sweet mother of Robert E. Lee!" he breathed. "The fault is active; I just knew it! Just a four-pointer, tops, but…remarkable!"

The tremor had stripped away most of Prescott's bravado. His complexion had blanched even further, leaving his scattering of freckles in stark relief. "F-fault?" he stammered.

"Yessir. You see, I was inspecting this here facility for precisely an event such as this. The Lord works in mysterious ways," said Face. "I didn't even know it until a few months ago myself, but the whole town of Possum Lodge lies right over an active fault. Forgive my bad manners." He beamed again, borrowing another clerical look.

"There hasn't been a quake in my thirty years here." It was the deputy, whom Face assumed must be Ike Redthorn. His Cherokee heritage was evident in the high cheekbones and raven-black hair. The bright blue eyes stared at Face and Murdock with equal parts suspicion and dislike.

"As I was tellin' your Miss Nalen earlier, these hairline faults can act without warning. Now, unless y'all want this entire town to collapse into a sinkhole, I suggest you let us complete our work so that we can certify this building." Face glanced at his watch. "I'll be needin' the keys to that storage shed."

Redthorn folded his arms across his chest. "Sorry. That shed's also our evidence locker. We're working an important case right now, and we can't risk contamination." There was almost no drawl to his voice, which was low and almost hypnotic.

Face's suspicions confirmed, he nodded and picked up his briefcase. "Very well. Mr. Swain, let's get on back to that delightful B&B. Gentlemen, we'll be needin' to complete this investigation pretty soon so I can report back to the chancellor at SC and the Secretary of HUD. If there's any more tremors, y'all don't hesitate to call. We'll be over at Miss Angelica's, but be sure to speak up nice and clear if she answers the phone. She's a lovely lady, but her hearing isn't what it used to be…"

"Go on and git!" spat Prescott, his measure of patience with Face gone.

"Your assistant there's sure a strange guy," remarked Redthorn as a still shocked-looking Murdock made his way toward the parking lot.

"Ah. Well, Chauncey was on vacation just outside Mexico City during that big nine-pointer. Scared him right green. If he hadn't been practicin' his 'duck and cover' drill, I don't know if he'd be with us today," said Face with a trace of amused irony. "I suggest y'all be rehearsing that drill. Just in case. You need a refresher course?"

"No. We can take care of ourselves," Redthorn answered, tight-lipped.

"Just asking. Never can hurt to take precautions. Anyhow, we'll be seein' you again soon. Call me if things start shakin' again, y'hear?" With a bright smile, Face left the constable and his deputy behind.

"Careful wit' that, fool! You got any idea how long it took me to build it?" B.A. snapped at Murdock, who was lifting what appeared to be an ordinary boom box with conical speakers into the back of the van.

"Relax, B.A. It worked like a charm, by the way. Ground trembling, windows breaking: it was a wonderful thing," Face assured him. With slight annoyance, he added, "If you'd have had this thing ready for those Beddington fat cats last month, it might have saved me getting pummeled by that one guy's bodyguard." He rubbed at his jaw as if in remembrance of the injuries.

Hannibal, an impish look on his face, leaned over the back seat. "And it really made an earthquake?"

B.A. could barely hide his smile even in the middle of chiding Murdock. "Yeah, that's an ultra-low frequency generator. Like when you're behind some sucka on the freeway wit' a big sub-woofer and you feel the shakin'?" Face and Hannibal nodded. "Same idea, only a lot more so. Feels jus' like a little four-pointer in the Valley."

With the machine safely back in place and covered with a blanket, Murdock looked up, panting. "All right, big guy, that's enough liftin' for one day. We got their phone line tapped, too."

"You did all right, Crazy Man." B.A. was in one of his rare good moods. "You guys find anythin' in that office?" he asked Face.

The con man shook his head. "No, but we're pretty sure they're hiding something in their storage shed. I may go back there with my tool kit later and see what I can, um, dig up," he said, noticing Murdock's stern glance.

There was a buzzing sound from the van, and Hannibal reached for a headset. "Looks like Trey Prescott's getting a call. Let's go ahead and listen in…"

After a brief _click, _Prescott's voice was audible. _"Yeah?"_

"_Trey?"_

"_Orey? What the hell you callin' me here for?"_

"_Your old lady said you warn't home. Look, we got trouble, man. Some city boys jumped us down at the Catfish this mornin', made us look real bad."_

Hannibal smiled.

"_Cops?" _Prescott's voice sounded as worried as it had right after the tremor.

"_Naw, they didn't act or look like smokies. Might be FBI, though, sump'm like that…"_

"_They armed?"_

"_Not so far as I could tell. They fight pretty mean, though. Damn pretty boy o' theirs smashed a stool right over ol' Willie Purvis; he's still seein' stars."_

Prescott's breathing was heavy as he hesitated for a moment. _"You think they know?"_

"_I just ain't sure, Trey. They went on their way after bustin' up the place, God knows where."_

Another moment of silence. Whatever cogs existed in Trey Prescott's brain were surely turning in an approximation of deep thought. _"We better make a change of plans, throw 'em off the trail. You know the old Osborne farm, with that big ol' empty hay barn?"_

"_Yeah, what about it?"_

"_We're gonna fall back to there. Tonight. Spread the word. I don't want no damn feds breathin' down our necks. Wouldja recognize any of them boys if y'all saw 'em again?"_

"_Shit, Trey, we was hung over, man…"_

"_Shuddup, Orey. Just let all the guys know we're still on. Quit screwin' up, and if y'all see them Yankees again, holler. OK? Ike n' me'll be there, same as always."_

"_Awright."_

Another _click_, and the line went dead. Hannibal removed the headset and pulled at his cigar pensively.

"Hannibal?" It was Face. "What's going on? What did they say?"

"Yeah, what's the plan?" B.A. asked, eager to use his earthquake machine again.

"The plan's the same as before. We've just got to work a little faster, that's all," said Hannibal with a broad smile.

"Tonight?" gasped Face. "You've gotta be kidding."

Murdock turned a shade lighter than even his usual pale complexion. "But, Hannibal, tonight's the full moon. Y'think it'll be safe?"

"It's never safe 'round here wit' you spoutin' crazy talk," B.A. shot back, his ration of good cheer for that day exhausted.

Hannibal patted the tripod-mounted rifle he'd always called "Baby" with the greatest of affection. "Guys, I sure don't expect it to be safe…for Prescott and those slimebag friends of his. Maybe we can even break out a pincer movement on 'em." His blue eyes twinkled. "Let's just hope all the crazies really do come out at the full moon, huh? No offense, Murdock…"

Murdock's face wore a suitably lupine expression. "None whatsoever taken, Colonel."


	5. The Best Laid Plans

The warmth, blue sky and fluffy cumulus clouds of an Indian summer afternoon in Possum Lodge had given way to a harsh, ruddy s

The warmth, blue sky and fluffy cumulus clouds of an Indian summer afternoon in Possum Lodge had given way to a harsh, ruddy sunset under looming layers of nimbus clouds, their undersides turned the color of a fresh bruise. A few crickets sang mournful songs, and the _whoo-whoo_ of an owl at hunt could be heard somewhere in the distance. Maples, oaks and shagbark hickories, long since bare of their leaves, towered like the skeletons of giants along the perimeter of what had probably once been a cow pasture and was now an overgrown field. The only indication of human presence was a dilapidated hay barn with a sagging, half-rotted roof. A startled flock of barn swallows took flight as Hannibal clicked on his high-beam flashlight.

"Got to get to the show early, before all the good seats are gone." He smiled to himself, looking around the deserted barn. Stray bits of straw and dried manure, a few ancient, rusted hand tools, and a pile of scrap wood littered the dirt floor.

Face, right behind him, kicked at a pile of well-gnawed small animal bones with his boot. He'd changed out of Professor Colston's tweeds into forest-colored fatigues. "Sorry to be pushy, Hannibal, but remind me again why we're using this particular plan? This is the same one that culminated in me being chased through the jungle by half a dozen angry Nicaraguan guerrillas, you running out of ammo, the two of us having to conk B.A. with a rifle butt because I dropped his beddie-bye drink while the guerrillas were trying to kill me…"

The older man spread his arms theatrically, as if he were back in Hollywood filming _Aquamania V_ instead of backwoods Tennessee. "Yeah, Face, but just think: I've had a whole year to analyze exactly what went wrong with this plan, and work out all the kinks. It'll be great." He clapped a hand on Face's shoulder. "Plus, these guys won't have AK-47s. They'll probably be half-drunk by the time we make our big entrance. And, we've got Murdock with us armed and ready instead of circling around waiting to land."

Face rolled his eyes. "If he doesn't turn into a wolf first," he joked.

"Now, Face, why would he go and do that? He'd never abandon his unit, whether on two legs or four."

"Where is he, anyway?" Face squinted into the rapidly deepening gloom. "I thought he was kidding earlier when he was talking about chasing squirrels. Hopefully he's done by now."

Both men swung about at the sound of the barn doors creaking open, rifles raised, then quickly lowered them at the sight of B.A. "Jus' me, guys. We're all clear on the perimeter. If they got any kinda sentries or traps set up, I didn't see 'em." B.A. shouldered his own weapon. "Ain't as bad as I thought it was gonna be out here. Didn't have to fly, got some good cookin', too." He rubbed his stomach, remembering the homemade meat loaf and corn on the cob Mrs. Hawkins had packed them for lunch earlier.

"B.A., don't count your chickens too soon. Remember, we're using the plan from that Nicaragua raid last year," said Face nervously.

The big man glowered at Hannibal. "You better not be trickin' me into flyin' again."

"Now, B.A., just calm down. I assure you, this operation is strictly ground-based. We're using the best parts of that plan. Did Prescott get any more calls this afternoon?" asked Hannibal.

"No, man, jus' that one. But if he'd have found that bug, I'd know. "

"Face? Dig up anything interesting in their shed?"

"No, afraid not. I couldn't even get near it again; they were watching it like a pair of hawks. They've got some kind of industrial lock on it. I don't even have the right tools, so it'll have to wait. But there's definitely something interesting in there," said Face, dollar signs dancing in his eyes. "You want to go over or under fifty grand? Probably a lot of mayonnaise jars, for sure."

Hannibal tried not to smirk as he pulled another of Sweet Lou's finest cigars from his pocket and lit it. "Or maybe Mason jars; I hear they're big down here. Let's go over this again. We're not sure exactly when this shindig of theirs starts, but we'll give 'em plenty of time to get good and loose with whatever rotgut they drink around here. Prescott and that Indian buddy of his are the ringleaders, so they'll probably be carrying those .38s and maybe something bigger. I don't expect more than some peashooter deer rifles or shotguns from the rest of these scumbags. Face?"

"Yeah?"

"You take the right flank, just outside that clump of bushes. B.A., you'll be on the left, covered by the tree stump at nine o'clock."

"Got it, man."

"Murdock?"

A faint whimpering was audible from behind three ironclad barrels.

Taking a deep breath, Hannibal repeated himself. Murdock, an inscrutable look on his pale face, emerged from his hiding place. His hands were caked with dirt.

"What you been doin', fool? We talkin' about our strategy and you makin' an ass outta yo'self with this wolf-man rap!" B.A. shouted as loud as he dared.

"For your information, Baracan one, I was just putting the finishing touches on the surprise present for that constable," he replied with a huff. "Some people are _sooo_ ungrateful. You know how long it took me to dig that hole, big guy? After I dug four gaping chasms already today?" He shot an indignant look in Face's direction, then turned to Hannibal and stood at attention. "Oh, and you were sayin', Colonel?"

Hannibal stared into his comrade's deep brown eyes, which appeared more sane than usual at the moment. "You're taking point. Out of the four of us, your night vision is the best. You OK with that?"

The brief flash of sanity was gone, replaced by Murdock's usual wild, intense gaze. "We're gonna have ourselves a real old-fashioned hoedown, huh?"

"Not if I can help it. We'll be on top of the situation pretty quick. These guys aren't even gonna know what hit 'em," Hannibal answered.

Murdock frowned, and rubbed the spot between his eyebrows where the false mustache had been before it had fallen off. "I just gotta ask one thing, though…if the moon should happen to break through that cloud cover, and I feel my body starting to _change_, what then?"

"I'm gonna make your body change in a whole 'nother way if you don't shut up pretty quick," B.A. said menacingly.

Face, already starting to shiver in the October chill, interrupted. "Uh, B.A. better wait until after we've got these guys under wraps, all right? Hannibal, what are you going to be doing while we're out freezing our collective tails off waiting?"

The colonel pointed upward. "There's a big oak right above us; the limbs reach just far enough for me to drop in on them from up above. I figure in the last month I've jumped out of two planes, been shot at by a homicidal gang of Sandinistas, and kicked a guy out of the driver's seat of an ice cream truck doing 70, so I'd just like to expand my horizons and climb a 40-foot tree." He blew a smoke ring, his expression serene as that of a saint in a stained-glass window.

"Jus' 'cause you're on the jazz don't mean you won't break a leg if you fall outta that roof, Hannibal," B.A. warned.

"Sergeant, there's nothing better to cushion a fall than haystacks. Didn't you ever watch any Westerns when you were growing up?"

B.A. grunted. "Not my style, man. Jus' watch yo'self; that roof's not real sound. I got your back…again."

Over the nighttime sounds, the faint rumble of a diesel engine could be heard for the first time.

"That's our cue. Guys, first positions…the curtain goes up at my signal." Hannibal pointed to his wrist, where a small laser pointer B.A. had made was attached with a Velcro strap. "Face, douse the lights. B.A., make sure our tracks are covered. And Murdock?"

"Yeah, Colonel?"

"Let's show these little pigs that the Big Bad Wolves are in town for a special one-night engagement."

His loopy smile was the last thing Hannibal saw as he clicked off his own flashlight.

An hour later, the barn teemed with a dozen locals, including Prescott and Ike Redthorn, as well as Orey Grissom and the group from the Happy Catfish. Kerosene lanterns cast an eerie glow on the proceedings, as if the devil and his minions had chosen the venue for a hellish square dance. Someone had brought a keg of moonshine, and it did not go to waste. Along with the carousing men, an assortment of snarling, scarred fighting dogs waited in wooden crates, their noses eager for the blood of separately caged chickens, rabbits, and other helpless "bait."

True to his word, Hannibal Smith had climbed the towering oak tree with the grace of a wildcat. Seated atop one of the outstretched limbs, he now peered through one of the holes in the roof. Snatches of slurred, vulgar conversations met his ears. It was always interesting to hear what men would say when their wives and girlfriends weren't around.

Or when they didn't know they were being watched.

For not the first time that hour, he reached up to his rifle's shoulder strap and to the Browning .45 at his belt. Both were freshly cleaned, oiled, and fully loaded. Ready to roll. Hannibal had wanted to bring "Baby" with him at this perfect spot, but practicality dictated that the big M-60 be left in the capable hands of B.A. instead. The other three members of the A-Team waited below, crouched in their respective hiding places. Their leader couldn't see them at the moment, but that meant neither could the men in the barn.

To himself, Hannibal smirked and thought of the time they'd dropped in on a den of Vietcong hiding out near Pleiku. Those guys had at least tried not to be found. These hillbillies couldn't hide from a blind raccoon that had had a few too many Pabst Blue Ribbons.

Almost time.

The loud conversations below had shifted from talk of football, well-endowed women, and deer hunting to pure smack talk. Prescott made his rounds, a gracious host, swapping filthy jokes and verbal jabs with his fellow dogfighters, along with wads of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills and plastic bags filled with some unknown crystals. Ike Redthorn, his dusky face half in shadow, surveyed the goings-on from a corner of the barn like a proud baron watching his subjects from a castle window. He was the only man in the place who didn't seem to be partaking of the moonshine.

From his perch, Hannibal resisted the urge to unsling his rifle. The timing had to be just right; otherwise they might wind up having to deal with enraged, bloodthirsty pit bulls as well as their owners. He used the leverage of the limb to slide down onto the barn's roof. With cat-light feet, he tested it again. It held his weight, and he slid down closer to his enemies. Trey Prescott's voice, only slightly slurred by the moonshine, spoke up over the murmurs of anticipation from the crowd.

"We had a little change of plans tonight, y'all. We're gonna have ourselves a helluva good time, whether it's Friday, or Thursday, or…"

"Git on with it, Trey! Let's go!" hollered someone from the back. The others whooped and shouted, raising plastic cups filled with shine and sloshing most of it onto the dirt floor.

Atop the barn, Hannibal clicked the laser pointer at his wrist to the "on" position and aimed it at a sugar maple at twelve o'clock. _Curtains up. _He took the rifle from his shoulder.

"We're gonna kick it off tonight with an undercard special…Tru Blu goin' at it with Diablo…"

"Hey there, guys. Hope you don't mind an extra spectator." Hannibal smiled mischievously, his weapon pointed squarely at Prescott. "Considering I couldn't get tickets to the Possum Lodge Ladies' Auxiliary production of _The Sound of Music _and all."

Orey Grissom gasped, pointing one trembling finger towards the roof. "Th…that's him, Trey! That's the city guy from the Catfish!"

"Shuddup!" A flush had crept into Prescott's cheeks. "What the hell you doin' here, mister? This here's private property, and it's especially off-limits for guys like you," he said with a measure of false courage. One hand reached for his .38 Special.

Hannibal's index finger wagged in the air reproachingly. "Nope, Constable, I wouldn't do that. If you do, this party's going to turn into a tap-dancing recital pretty quick. If any of you slimeballs are armed, you better drop 'em now. That goes for you, too, pal," he shouted down to Redthorn, whose expression had gone from haughty indifference to cold fury.

The locals did so grudgingly, tossing a handful of revolvers, hunting knives, and a battered-looking slingshot onto the ground. Redthorn and Prescott, relieved of their lawmen's guns, fixated Hannibal with furious twin gazes.

"Hands on heads. Don't even think about trying anything," said Hannibal.

"What now?" spat Redthorn. "Sheriff and judge in this county are on our side, wise guy. If you run us in, they'll just throw out the charges. Revolving-door justice at its finest."

"Good one, Ike!" Grissom offered, slurring his words.

"I said, shuddup, Orey!" roared Prescott. "So what are you gonna do, anyway? Leave us to the coyotes?" He tried to sound stoic like Redthorn, but his voice faltered and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

Hannibal paused, rubbing his chin as if considering what to order at a five-star restaurant. "You know, I like that idea. Maybe even wolves." Keeping his rifle barrel pointed at its target with one hand, he swung from the rafters with the other to the haystack below, and then to the ladder leading downward. "Let's take it outside and see what we find. March," he ordered as his feet hit the dirt floor.

He herded them like a border collie behind a flock of sheep through the barn doors. Some of them muttered to themselves, others seemed merely stunned. Ike Redthorn, despite having his hands behind his head, kept his proud bearing, while Trey Prescott walked beside him, scowling.

Outside, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, and the wind had begun to moan through the bare trees. With his free hand, Hannibal pulled the flashlight from his belt and clicked it on twice short, then three times long. It was the signal they'd agreed on earlier to mean "all clear." Like camouflage-colored ghosts, Face, B.A. and Murdock emerged from their respective hiding places, grim-faced, with rifles raised.

"You really think the four of you gonna keep us all here all night long?" asked Prescott with a derisive laugh.

Hannibal chortled back. "I don't think so. In fact, I know so. Keep walking; you haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

They hadn't gone very far when Redthorn raised his head high and emitted a quick, high-pitched cry that put Murdock's recent wolf-calls to shame. In the next instant, a ring of torches were lit in the woods surrounding them. It was one of Hannibal's favorite tricks…only this time, he appeared to be on the receiving end.

Redthorn's lips skimmed back in a human approximation of a carnivore's snarl. "Still think you're gonna keep us here, wise guys? Those guys out there are with me. They're the Brotherhood of the Black Fox, and they aren't a bunch of stupid rubes. Every one of 'em has a sniper rifle and knows how to use it. So I'll make a suggestion that _you_ throw down _your _weapons, and we might only cut off one of your hands." His voice was low and dangerous.

"What's the plan now?" Face hissed at Hannibal, his knuckles white against the rifle stock.

"Yeah, sucka, this was supposed to get them caught!" snapped B.A.

"Colonel, I think we're in some _kimchi _here," Murdock added.

Hannibal merely smiled one of his thoughtful smiles, eyeing Redthorn and Prescott. "So, the way I see it we have two options. Either we surrender to you guys, in which case you'll definitely torture us and probably kill us. Or, we don't surrender to you, in which case you only _might _torture or kill us. I'd have to go with an option that allows for some flexibility," he said, still clutching his rifle.

"Shut up and drop 'em, otherwise I give them the order to fire," Redthorn said, pointing to the shadows holding torches.

"This guy has the same flaw as Decker. Always gives me just enough time to think," said Hannibal under his breath, just loud enough for his teammates to hear. "Head back toward where we left the van, and we'll regroup. Split up if you have to, and keep 'em entertained on the way."

"Right, Hannibal…"

"Stop talking! I said shu…"

Before Redthorn could finish, Hannibal swung the butt of his weapon hard, while Face and B.A. did the same. The deputy, expecting the blow, nimbly dodged and threw a punch of his own, just clipping Hannibal under the jaw. Murdock, yowling at the top of his lungs, head-butted the man closest to him, losing his baseball cap in the process.

"Open fire!" Hannibal and Redthorn shouted almost as one.

Ike Redthorn hadn't been lying about his men's skill. Rounds zinged past, scattering bits of bark and dirt everywhere. Face, B.A. and Murdock returned the volley, their automatics making a distinct chatter. Most of the locals from the barn fled screaming in terror or else dashed around aimlessly like freshly decapitated chickens.

"Guys, let's go!" bellowed Hannibal, trading shots with a sniper in the low-hanging branches of a tree. The four of them, running hard, burst through an opening in the circle of torchlight. Right behind them came the whoops and war cries of the Brotherhood of the Black Fox and its enraged leader. With only the faint glow of torches, the woods were as forbidding and dark as the worst kind of fairy tale. As his team surged blindly ahead, Hannibal turned every few steps to scatter his pursuers with a burst of firepower.

Face loped beside him like a greyhound, firing off a few shots in stride. "We saw a pond about two hundred yards from here when we were hiding the van. Might be our only chance to lose these guys," he panted. A round found its mark in a sugar maple trunk just over his shoulder, and he flinched.

With a brief burst of speed, Hannibal took the lead and silently signaled for the others to follow him. At Face's urging, the A-Team ducked behind a cluster of tall black oaks covered in lichens. There was a pond, although it was almost impossible to make out under a cover of fallen leaves and algae.

"Gentlemen, shall we?" Hannibal said, quickly removing his utility belt and rifle strap. "Table for four…" The others didn't have time to complain; they too removed their weapons and took their places in the cold, brackish water.

Over a fallen log, they could make out the shapes of several Black Foxes holding their torches and rifles. Like their namesakes, they slunk here and there, sniffing the air tentatively and peering through the gloaming with sharp eyes. One got close enough for Hannibal to see the scuffed tops of his hiking boots. After a few agonizing minutes, the pursuers convened, exchanged words in the same language Ike Redthorn had spoken earlier, then vanished once again into the forest.

"God_damn_ that's cold!" B.A. whispered hoarsely, not wanting to alert the enemy to his position. He crawled from the pond as quickly as he could, trailing mud and algae, looking like some prehistoric behemoth rudely pulled from its aquatic habitat onto land.

"Yeah, I'm sure this was all p-part of your plan, right, Hannibal?" Face followed him, teeth clacking together.

Murdock didn't seem quite as bothered. He pulled himself from his hiding place, then, on all fours, violently shook himself off. "I dunno, guys, I think it worked pretty good. We lost 'em, right, Colonel?"

"For now." Hannibal was re-attaching his belt and weapons as the others did the same. "Guys, as cold goes, this is nothing. You should have been there for the _Spawn of the Stingray_ shoot_. _Now _that_ was cold, and in a rubber suit, no less…"

Face fixed him with a look somewhere between disbelief and loathing. "Hannibal, would you stop talking about bad monster movies and give us some suggestion as to what to do when one is lost, being chased by a crazed and heavily armed Indian cult, wet and freezing cold, in the middle of Redneck America?"

"That's the easy part, Face. You get yourself warm and dry next to a roaring fire, have some beef stew and cornbread, then regroup." Hannibal grinned, wiping a bit of algae from his silver hair.

"A roarin' fire? Cornbread? Where we gonna find that?" B.A. asked sarcastically.

Hannibal turned to Murdock, who seemed to be looking around for the baseball cap he'd lost earlier. "Captain, you up for a scouting assignment? There's got to be a hunting cabin or a ranger station around here somewhere; we're right on the edge of a national forest. And if we find that," he nodded to B.A. and Face, "we find all the comforts of home. Right?"

"You got it. These eyes of mine, they're fully equipped for the nocturnal…" With his cap gone, somehow his pale face seemed more lupine.

Hannibal nodded. "There's a logging road somewhere around here; I saw it when we were coming in. Follow it, stay hidden, and if you don't find anything in an hour or so, we'll rendezvous by the van and try for Plan B."

With a yelp, the lanky captain turned and trotted off, leaves crunching under his feet.

"Crazy fool gonna get himself killed by them snipers," B.A. muttered, trying to dry himself in futility.

"He won't. But if he does, B.A., you'll just get more stew to yourself, right?"

Face held one of his combat boots upside down, letting a stream of muddy water trickle out. "How far are we from the van, anyway?" he asked, shivering and trying not to think of dry clothes and hot coffee.

"Hard to say, maybe half a mile or so, Faceman. Them Black Foxes probably got it covered like a blanket, so we better lie low fo' a while" B.A. confessed.

"You had to mention blankets…" Between shivers, Face let out a sigh.

Hannibal pulled the last few cigars from his pocket, which the water had rendered quite useless. He flung them into the pond, where they rapidly sank. "Not my brand, anyway," he said to himself. Then, to the others, "You guys notice anything strange about this spot?"

"Other than the fact that it's almost pitch-dark, smells pretty bad, and is home to more than a few species of predators?"

"No, Face, something else."

B.A. was the first to say something. "It's quiet, man. Way too quiet. Like them spots where the VC nests were," he said.

Hand on his rifle, Face pivoted. "You don't think there's more of those Black Fox guys out here, do you?"

"No, it's not that. Listen: no crickets, no nightbirds, nothing. We better secure the perimeter, just to be sure," said Hannibal, drawing his .45 pistol.

In near-silence, the three men, Hannibal in the lead with Face and B.A. at either side, walked on the balls of their feet through the tangle of trees and underbrush, occasionally pushing aside a vine or other piece of foliage. Face swore lightly as he tripped over a jutting stump, then righted himself.

"You'd think we were in a graveyard, it's so quiet," he admitted under his breath.

"Man, I think we _are_." B.A. pointed with his rifle. They stood in a clearing, where a number of weathered stones jutted from the ground. Upon closer inspection, the markers weren't inscribed with names or dates of birth and death, but instead vaguely familiar markings like matchsticks.

Hannibal circled around the tallest of the monuments, peering at its symbols. "You think this is their cemetery? The Cherokee?" he mused.

B.A. shook his head. "No, man, these ain't Indian markings. They look kinda familiar, though, like Viking runes or somethin' else like that."

"How old do you think these are?" Face reached out to touch the stone closest to him, which bore a pictograph of a raven along with the alien script.

There was a loud _tunnng! _sound from the surrounding trees just as Face felt Hannibal tackle him like a member of the Los Angeles Rams. For a moment, he couldn't move with the wind knocked out of him. When he opened his eyes, he saw B.A. with one hand outstretched, concern in his dark eyes.

"You okay, Faceman?"

"Yeah." He took the offered hand and righted himself. "Still damp, but no harm done. Hannibal?"

The colonel, still on the ground, made a sound he had only rarely made since his days in Vietnam. It was a low groan of pain.

"Booby-trapped. Clever." Hannibal sat up, then immediately winced. Looking down, he noticed the crossbow bolt blooming from his left thigh like a metal flower. "Hey, at least it isn't shrapnel," he joked, but his face was already drawn in agony.

"Hannibal, we gotta get you up and outta here before them crazies come back," B.A. said in a harsh rasp. "Can you walk?"

Hannibal probed the wound with two gloved fingers, then winced again. "I'm gonna need a little help, guys. Pick me up, on three…" They did, and he stood with his uninjured leg on the ground, one arm around each of his men's shoulders.

Through the patch of sky that was visible, a column of silver light poured down into the clearing, a full moon now hovering over the tops of the trees. And somewhere in the distance, a sound could be heard; not the hooting of owls, or a nighthawk, or even the war whoops of the pursuing Brotherhood of the Black Fox.

It was unmistakably the plaintive howl of a wolf.

"All part of your plan, right, Hannibal?" Face asked nervously, scanning the trees as if expecting certain doom.

"Almost makes me wish I were in a plane instead of out here wit' you and your fool plan," B.A. groused.

"Hey, guys, I never said there wasn't room for improvement. Third time will be a charm." Through his pain, Hannibal managed a faint grin. "Come on, maybe Murdock found us the Four Seasons…"


	6. The Indifferent Witch of the South

_Chapter 6_

"Man, we bein' followed." B.A. kept his voice low, pushing aside a thorny branch as he spoke. "You think Redthorn and his posse found our trail?"

"I think you're right, B.A. No telling who it is; I can hardly see ten feet ahead of me," Face agreed, panting, his breath coming out in misted puffs. "Hannibal? You hanging in there?"

Leaning heavily on his men for support, the colonel gritted his teeth. "Guys, remind me to bring a field medic bag next time we conduct an operation out here. Maybe a flask of whiskey, too. Let's take a quick breather, get our bearings…" His voice was hoarse, every word taxing him. With as much ease as they could manage, Face and B.A. lowered him into a sitting position atop a lichen-covered log.

Like three football players, they huddled together, backs turned to a persistent, bitter north wind. "We are being followed, but they're keeping their distance for now. I'm not worried about that so much as I am this hole in my leg. B.A., how much further to the van?" Hannibal asked.

"Hard to say, man. We had to double back some to lose them Black Foxes, so maybe another mile, maybe less." The big man frowned, his face a shadow in the dappled patches of moonlight. "We're still goin' south by southeast, so I think we're pretty close. But they know where they're goin', and we runnin' blind and hurt."

Face examined the still-protruding end of the bolt, and the quarter-sized bloodstain surrounding its entry point. "Looks like the bleeding's stopped, if there were any to begin with," he ventured.

"That's what worries me, Lieutenant," Hannibal admitted in an unusually serious tone. "These things are designed to bring down a razorback in a bad mood. They're not like rounds, they don't cauterize as they go in. You start moving, and you'll bleed internally. I think I got lucky and it missed my femoral artery, but I'm not a medic." He tried to touch the bolt again, and immediately winced.

"I ain't either, so don't be lookin' for no bedside manner," said B.A., tossing Hannibal the canteen from his belt.

Hannibal quickly sucked down the little bit left inside and wiped his lips with one grime-covered hand. "Face, how far to the closest hospital? I can't exactly pull this thing out with pliers."

The younger man paused, visualizing the map he'd used as Albert Colston. "There isn't one in either Possum Lodge or Tyrell. I think it's the county seat, Fairwoods," he said.

"How far?"

"It don't matter none if we can't get you outta here alive," B.A. interjected, concern replaced by sheer determination in his voice. "You better get up, sucka, 'cause I don't wanna have to carry yo' wounded butt through these woods." He leaned down, a wry smile creasing his lips.

"You really know how to motivate a guy, B.A."

Face, crouching beside Hannibal's other side, offered a smirk of his own. "At least we're somewhat less damp now, right? And we don't have Charlie on our tail, just a bunch of lunatic rednecks." He scanned the surrounding trees more out of habit than anything else; it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. "You think Murdock found civilization by now? Or a Captain Bellybuster's?"

"Man, I don't say this much, but I wouldn't mind seein' that fool right about now," said B.A., letting Hannibal drape one arm around his broad shoulders. "I jus' hope he didn't run off on all fours without no clothes or some crazy shit like that."

Hannibal gingerly planted his right foot on the ground, then let himself be helped up. "Have some faith, Sergeant. It hasn't been more than an hour. Maybe he stumbled across one of those big, shiny Forest Service choppers."

A groan. "Even worse…"

"I'm getting a weird feeling, like when we were back in that graveyard," Face muttered. "Or maybe Redthorn and his bunch scared off all the animals except the Big Bad Wolf?"

"Or maybe used 'em all as bait for them pit bulls," suggested B.A.

Hannibal jerked his head ever so slightly upward. "I think whoever's been tailing us may have just caught up. Let me down for a minute, Face, so I can grab my pistol…"

A _shooonk, _and a thirty-inch, grey-fletched shaft buried itself in a tree trunk three inches from B.A.'s shoulder. He blinked in surprise, then immediately unslung his own rifle and pointed it at what he only hoped was his enemy's position.

"What _is _it with arrows around here? Can't these people use guns like normal maniacs?" hissed Face, as another found its mark where he had stood a moment before. He too aimed his rifle at the unseen target, whirling around.

Hannibal had dropped to one knee, his .45 clenched firmly in his right hand. "Hold fire," he commanded Face and B.A. sharply. Without lowering his weapon, he squinted into the darkness.

A tall figure stood just at the cusp of visibility. There was a barely audible creak as the longbow's string it held was drawn into position.

"We're on the run from a gang that calls themselves the Brotherhood of the Black Fox. We mean you no harm," Hannibal said as calmly as he dared.

"Hannibal, are you crazy?" Face was incredulous.

"Could be one of them, man," B.A. agreed, still in his shooter's stance.

The archer took one tentative step forward, shaft still nocked and drawn. "The Brotherhood of the Black Fox?" asked a low, hoarse voice. A female voice.

"Yeah. Their leader's a guy named Ike Redthorn. They opened fire on us ," Hannibal continued, "and I'm wounded. We need some medical help."

"You crazier than Murdock, man…"

Into the meager light emerged a rangy woman neither old nor young in a long, ragged duster coat and boots, along with the kind of wide-brimmed hat a southern preacher might have worn a century earlier. Her otherwise proud face was streaked with dirt, and her eyes shone like two pinpricks of light. She did not smile.

"Lower yer weapons, and I shall do the same." There was a curious lilt mixed in with her Tennessee drawl.

Each side did so grudgingly, exchanging looks of mutual hesitation. When the three Thompson automatics, Hannibal's .45, and the stranger's longbow and curved dagger were on the ground, she spoke again.

"_All_ yer weapons." She flicked a glance at Hannibal.

He pulled his favorite throwing knife from his belt, grinning. "Had to try." He kept kneeling, unable for the moment to rise. "Now if I might ask: why were you were shooting at us?"

The woman folded her arms across her chest, smirking just a bit. "This 'ere's sacred ground. But you're cowan, _Sassenach _besides, and you wouldna know that. Apologies, but I didna know if you were one o' them till I got a wee bit closer." Almost a Scottish accent, but not quite. "Yer runnin' from Redthorn, ye say?"

"We don't run from nobody, lady," B.A. shot back.

Hannibal raised one arm to silence him. "Redthorn and the town constable were running a dogfight not far from here, and we were trying to break up their little party. It went somewhat awry." He paused; the last ten minutes had drained much of his remaining stamina. "But I need to have this wound dressed pretty quick, or I won't be in a position to help you or anyone else. Can you take us to shelter? We'll pay you for your troubles."

She looked from Hannibal to Face to B.A., her own expression inscrutable. Finally she nodded. "I'll take ye to my home; it's over the ridge yonder. Stay close, and take yer weapons," she said, sweeping up her own with one hand. With a grunt, Hannibal let his men re-arm, then raise him up once again.

"What about my van?" B.A. growled as they picked their way over dried leaves and underbrush in the stranger's wake. "If anythin' happens to it…"

"They won't. Not if you hid it the way you usually do," answered Hannibal, the energy nearly gone from his voice. "I sure hope 'yonder' doesn't mean another mile."

Face leaned in closer and whispered. "She seems to take a special interest when you mentioned Redthorn. What's her angle, you think?"

In one fluid motion, the woman turned on Face, fixing him with a gaze that might have melted pig iron. "'E was my soulmate, my _anamchara_, before 'e killed me father," she explained coolly, as if telling him the final score of a Dodgers game. The duster coat swung around as she wheeled in a huff.

"It's an old military saying, but a good one, Lieutenant. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,'" murmured Hannibal just before he drifted into darkness.

After what seemed like an eternity, B.A. and Face, supporting the unconscious Hannibal, stood in front of a weathered but homey log cabin with a tin roof and a chimney with a thin column of smoke rising. At this point, it seemed more inviting than the Beverly Hills Hotel, and it meant dry clothes, a cup of coffee, and at least basic medical treatment for their injured leader. Both men breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Their guide, who hadn't said a word in the last twenty minutes since her revelation, gestured for them to enter. "Put 'im on the cot inside. I'm goin' tae take out that bolt, and I'll wager ye'll need tae restrain him," she said, nodding her head to B.A.

The big man glowered at her; he was in worse spirits than even his usual ill humor. "Momma, Hannibal's tougher than old rawhide. He been wounded worse than this before, and he don't need no nursemaid."

"Suit yerself. But I'm guessin' the Cong didna ever use crossbows." Her smile, unseen until now, was quick and ironic.

"How'd you know we were in Nam?" Face asked, startled enough to nearly drop Hannibal's right arm.

" Musta been, fer you tae know how tae use weapons like those_._ Rangers, summat like that?" She pointed to the Brownings and the M-60 slung over their shoulders._ "_Let's get 'im inside first, then we canna talk…"

If the Happy Catfish had been tastelessly rustic, and the Hawkins' bungalow shamelessly all-American, the stranger's cabin was merely cozy and livable. Knotted pine walls draped with various hand-woven tapestries and rugs, the pleasant scent of burning candles that smelled of autumn, a chandelier made from an old wagon wheel. Face and B.A. made a grateful beeline for the open blaze going in the stone fireplace after they'd placed Hannibal atop the oversize cot in the combination living room/kitchen. They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth start to penetrate their sodden, filthy clothes, then rejoined their commanding officer at his bedside.

Face watched the woman rummage through an old-fashioned steamer trunk beside the fireplace. "So, uh, are you a field nurse by trade? Maybe you were over in Nam too? Is that how you guessed about us?"

Her dark head appeared over the lid of the trunk, along with a long pair of pliers held in her hand. "No, hardly been outta this valley, much less tae that part o' the world. Not a nurse either, but I'm a healer when I have tae be. Never really mastered the art," she admitted. "Think I can get that sticker out and disinfect it, though."

"Ain't you a little scared, livin' out here wit' them crazies all around, your father gone, and no husband?" B.A.'s tone had softened slightly after a few minutes by the fire. He pointed to the woman's long fingers, which bore no ring.

Closing the trunk lid, she chuckled dryly. "I'm not much fer jewelry," she said, eyeing B.A.'s matched golden hoops, "and even if I were married, I wouldna wear a ring. As fer Redthorn and those boys what call themselves a Clan, I can handle meself well enough."

Face continued, still skeptical. "With a bow and arrow? Come on, are you trying to be a twentieth-century Maid Marian or something?"

The tight-lipped smile crossed her face again, and for the first time he noticed the beginnings of wrinkles on her handsome features. "'Tis my charge, tae look after these woods. I scared ye well enough earlier, didn't I? And yes, I do have a shotgun, but I only use it for huntin' less dangerous prey."

"If you gonna be operatin' on Hannibal, we at least wanna know your name, lady. You better not be lyin' about Redthorn and them thugs, either," said B.A. impatiently.

She stepped toward him as if in challenge. "Give me your name, lad, and I shall give ye mine."

Ever the diplomat, Face rose to his feet and placed himself between the two would-be combatants. "I'll go ahead and break the ice. I'm Templeton Peck, our fearless leader there is Hannibal Smith, and this charming gent is B.A. Baracus. Don't worry, he's like this with everyone, even people he likes." They both nodded to their host.

"Moira O'Faolan," she replied curtly, her strange accent rolling the syllables.

B.A. spoke up immediately. "Our clients said somethin' about an old man O'Faolan, who went missing tryin' to bust up that ring. Was that your old man?"

"Aye. Now I'm the last o' the O'Faolans," Moira confirmed, now busied looking for bandages in a small cedar chest. She removed a roll of gauze along with a needle and thread. "It was Ike Redthorn who killed 'im, as I've said before. I couldna even send Dad to the Summerlands properly, since I never found 'is body."

"I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but what kind of accent is that?" asked Face, unable to take his eyes off her, and reminded somehow of a stunning brunette he'd once dated who'd been gonzo about Renaissance re-enactments and festivals. Now that Moira O'Faolan had removed the duster coat and her floppy hat, he saw that she wore a loose, homespun blouse and leather breeches, and was pretty in a rustic, weathered kind of way.

She laughed for the first time, guttural but somehow merry. "I could ask the same o' you. We O'Faolans are late, about two hundred years or so, of County Galway in Ireland, but that's been plenty o' time for this yokel drawl tae creep into our speech. Havin' a hard time understandin' me, are ye?" she asked, amused, laying out her makeshift surgical instruments onto a towel next to the cot.

"No, it wasn't that or anything. Just curious." Face seemed uncharacteristically embarrassed.

On the cot, Hannibal groaned and rubbed his eyes. " Looks like we made it to the Holiday Inn after all. Any chance happy hour's still on?" he asked eagerly.

Moira squatted beside him, her amber eyes staring into his baby blues. "Jes' so happens we've been savin' some of our finest fer an occasion such a' this." A bottle of whiskey was clutched in her other hand. "Hope yer not mindin' single malt…"

"No, I could use a drink right about now."

As Face and B.A. nervously hovered nearby, she cut away the patch of cloth surrounding the wound and liberally doused it with the antiseptic. "The Lord of the Forest must hae been lookin' out for ye. Just missed the artery, it did. Now fer the unpleasant part." She looked at him in a way meant to convey sympathy, but that seemed more like mild amusement.

"Look, lady, you better fix him up right. Ain't like you workin' on a horse or a cow," B.A. said, a finger thrust at Moira.

Face shook his head. "I'm sure she's fully qualified, B.A. She's not a witch doctor or anything like that…"

For a moment she lifted her head from her work, favoring him with her feral, lopsided smile.

"Are you?" He gulped.

"You were right about the first part o' that, lad," she murmured. "Is there a problem?"

It was Hannibal's turn to be amused despite his pain. "Let me get this straight, guys. The only person qualified to patch me up for fifty miles around is a woman we think might be a nurse, but is a witch instead?" His eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling, and a grin tugged at his lips. "This just gets better and better."

"Do ye want me tae fix this or not?" Moira was indignant, hands on hips.

"No, go ahead. We didn't mean it that way," Face assured her. "It's just, well, if you're a witch, shouldn't you have a cauldron over the fireplace? A black cat? One of those pointy hats?"

She tugged a course thread through a needle with her teeth, biting off the end and knotting it. "It's not like in all the fairy-tale books ye read growin' up, lad. We're not turnin' men into newts, or bakin' children into pies, or any o' that nonsense. We want tae live and let live just like the rest o' the world," she said with quiet resignation, as if she'd had to explain her lot in life many times before. "Trouble is, sometimes the folk 'round here take literally the phrase 'ye shall not suffer a witch tae live.'"

"That's what happened to your father," said Hannibal, seeing her nod in agreement.

"So, 'are you a good witch or a bad witch?'" Face tried to offer levity to the situation.

There was that hard, iron-melting glare again. "I'm on no one's side, lad, as no one seems tae be on mine. I survive by me own wits now." Her voice was low, grim. She gestured to B.A. behind her. "Get ready tae hold him, and have that compress ready…"

In one quick motion, Moira clamped the pliers to the end of the bolt and said a quick incantation under her breath. After counting to three, she twisted and pulled hard, and the shaft came free in a spattering of blood. Hannibal, ever stoic, merely gritted his teeth as B.A. clamped down his shoulders and Moira held a cotton bandage quickly turning scarlet over the wound.

"We'll allow it tae stop bleedin', and I'll stitch it up. Ye'll be on yer feet again in no time," she offered. "The Lady of the Hunt was over yer shoulder tonight, lad. Just stay outta that burial ground from now on."

Face did a double-take. "That was your trap?"

"Didna expect that half-wit Prescott tae come up with somethin' like that, did ye? And the Black Foxes use rifles, never arrows or bolts." Moira winked, seeing his expression change from shock to pure annoyance. "I'll put a pot o' coffee on fer the three o' ye. Hold that compress steady and I'll fetch another," she said to Hannibal.

"You didn't see another guy comin' through here, did you?" B.A. asked her. "Tall, real pale, completely crazy look to him?"

A flicker of recognition. "He's with the three o' you, then? Thought he was delirious, I did, under the influence o' the Morrigu herself. He was lookin' for aid, but seemed as though he was needin' it more fer himself than anythin'."

"Where'd he go?" Face asked, suddenly worried for Murdock lost in the woods, delusional and under the face of a full moon. "What did you say to him? He's, well, a little impressionable sometimes…"

She placed her first aid tools and the mostly empty whiskey bottle on an end table. "I didna know he was with you, lad. He's under a dark curse o' some kind. I sent him lookin' fer mistletoe and wolfbane. Might be the only hope fer him now," she ventured, her strange eyes peering through the cabin's only window into the dark woods beyond.

B.A.'s temper flared. "Lady, you sent that crazy fool out lookin' for weeds in them pitch-black woods wit' a bunch of killers on his tail?"

"Ah, but there's a full moon out, lad. Won't be so dark after all. Yer friend be in the hands of Cernunnos himself."

Hannibal gingerly rose to a sitting position, still holding the blood-soaked bandage, wondering if at last he'd found someone just as crazy and unpredictable as H.M. Murdock. "How long ago did you send him out?"

As if in answer to the question, the door of the O'Faolan family cabin crashed open, a crouched figure lurking on its threshold. Hannibal reached for his .45, but quickly lowered it when the ruddy firelight revealed the intruder for who he was.

"It's all right, guys." He tried not to laugh.

B.A. stomped towards the door like an enraged bull. "Where the hell you been, fool?" he shouted.

If he'd been able to grab Murdock's collar, he might have, but it was missing, along with all of the taller man's other attire save for a pair of bright blue boxers with a Woody Woodpecker pattern. The rest of his pale body was covered in mud, twigs, burrs, and who knew what else.

"Uh, Murdock, where are your clothes?" Face managed after a moment, his voice half an octave higher than normal. "And aren't you, well, a little cold?"

Murdock rose from four legs to two and shook off the way a dog would. "Hey, guys! You made it here. Colonel, you OK?" he asked, strangely calm and collected.

"Fine, now. Did you get lost out there?"

"I dunno what happened in those woods. There was the moon, and I musta blacked out or somethin'…" He shuddered, either from remembering his flight through the forest or simply due to his uncovered state.

B.A.'s hand shot to his throat. "Foo', you supposed to have been findin' us some help, not playin' around and actin' crazy! You find us a way outta this jam, or didn't you?" the big man bellowed, his face inches from Murdock's.

"Yeah, big guy, lemme down for just a sec…" He rubbed at his neck gratefully. "I got what you wanted, hon," he said to Moira, tossing her a wadded-up paper bag. "It's white berries, right?"

"That's right." She nodded.

"As for you, you big ugly mudsucker, there's an old logging road just to the south of here. Far as I could tell, it goes straight back into Possum Lodge." He straightened, looking as haughty as a man could look covered in debris and nearly naked.

"What about Prescott and Redthorn and their gang?" Hannibal said, grimacing as he tested his weight on the floor. Even if he'd been at full strength, he was still outnumbered and on hostile territory.

Face put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You didn't let those guys track you, right?"

"I…I just don't remember too much at all, Faceman…" Murdock looked like he wanted to cry, or maybe turn his head to the night sky and start yelping.

B.A. stood at the cabin window. "Hannibal, I jus' saw somethin' out there, and it wasn't no deer."

The silence of the night was punctuated by distant, but rapidly approaching shouts and whoops, along with glimpses of torchlight through the gaps in the trees.

The Brotherhood of the Black Fox.

"If they don't kill you first, foo', I'm gonna do it myself…" B.A. growled as Murdock shrank back down to a crouch and began to whimper in desperation.


	7. Reviewing the Situation

_**Chapter 7**_

"C'mon, you didn't really let those guys track you here, right, Murdock?" Face repeated himself. He looked into his friend's eyes, hoping to find a glimmer of sanity.

"I'm tellin' you the truth, guys. Last thing I remember, I was standin' right in front of this place, you know, like this." He trembled all over. "Maybe they just got lucky?"

"Maybe they just followed yo' footprints, sucka," B.A. murmured, too preoccupied to argue at the moment, as he pulled both rifles from his shoulders. "Hannibal? Looks like about a dozen men out there. We gonna stand and fight?"

In his sitting pose, hand under his chin, Hannibal appeared to be a flesh and blood version of Rodin's _The Thinker. _He raised his head and met B.A.'s gaze. "Could have been they _were _led here, but not by Murdock." His eyes shifted to Moira. "That sound like a good theory, sweetheart?"

She put down the paper bag Murdock had given her with deliberate calm, eyes blazing. "Yer all strangers tae me, I give ye aid and comfort, and now I'm a traitor, am I?" She fumed, her Irish country lilt becoming even thicker in her rage.

Face pointed an accusing finger. "You said Ike Redthorn was once your soulmate. How do we know he's not still?"

"Yeah, or that you're not really with them Black Foxes?" added B.A. Outside, the shouts had grown louder and closer.

Her expression was a portrait of fury, teeth bared. "Look, _Sassenach,_ much as it'd be me pleasure to tell ye the full tale, now's not the opportune time. Believe what ye will, but Redthorn and his band are sworn enemies tae me now, and I've taken an oath tae kill that bastard or die tryin'." She spat. "You're not enemies, and my quarrel's not with ye, so take whatever medicines an' supplies ye need. Until we meet again, then; I've me own battles to fight," she said, wheeling about and plucking the duster coat and hat from their hooks on the wall.

Before she could take up her longbow, Face intercepted her. "And we're trying to take him down too. If you're trying to avenge your father, shouldn't you want to stand up to these guys?"

"He's got a point there." Hannibal shifted his weight on the cot, .45 clenched in one hand. "If you're sworn to kill him, we're actually on the same side."

For a moment Moira was quiet. Then, she gently but firmly pushed past Face and armed herself with a deep sigh of resignation. "Ye seem like nice fellas, really. I shouldna drag ye into all this," she muttered. "It's…complicated. I've mucked things up enough as 'tis. May the Lord and the Lady protect ye, because I canna anymore. Farewell." In a fluid motion, she disappeared like a shadow through the cabin's back door.

"Well, she's a piece of work, isn't she?" smirked Face, unslinging his own rifle from his back. "First she's Cornelia Van Helsing, then Samantha, then Mata Hari."

"Hannibal, we got company comin' right up. We gonna fight or what?" B.A. called from his position next to the window.

The colonel shifted again to face Murdock, who seemed frozen in place, either from shock or sheer cold. "Captain, I'm gonna need you again for a special assignment."

B.A. snorted. "This ain't the time for playin' around, man."

Hannibal ignored him. "C'mere, and let me tell you what to do," he said, beckoning to Murdock.

There was a _thunk _on the cabin door, which sounded less like a polite knock than a battering ram.

"You nuts? You're actually gonna surrender to these suckas?" B.A. shouted in fury. "That girl drug you or somethin'?"

Murdock smirked and flexed his hands like paws. "No, big guy, only you three are gonna surrender. As for me, I'm gonna lie in wait, and come out when they least expect me…"

"Even worse!"

Face's eyes darted to the door, which shuddered on its hinges under another heavy blow. "Hannibal? I really hope this isn't another of your 'Plan B's.'"

"Okay, guys, we're on. First positions, and, curtain up, any minute now," Hannibal said, as if trying to be Steven Spielberg. "Murdock, you better find a tight spot."

"Yep, I'm on it." He scanned the humble living space and noticed the steamer trunk. In a spontaneous display of agility, he folded his six feet two inches inside and lowered the lid with one finger held to his lips.

"Crazy fool gonna get us all killed…"

Before B.A. could finish his sentiments, the door gave out and came crashing down. Ike Redthorn, a look of haughty pride back on his angular face, stood on the threshold. He held a 30.06 with a flashlight scope, and was flanked by four of his men bearing torches.

Face, trying to play along, offered an impish grin. "Uh, guys, just leave _The Watchtower_ on the stoop, okay? We're just about to sit down for dinner."

Redthorn didn't laugh. He drew a bead at Hannibal's forehead. "Any reason I shouldn't shoot you right now, smart guy?"

"I can think of a few." Hannibal rose, his face still drawn with pain. "First of all, it's against the rules of civilized engagement to shoot anyone who voluntarily surrenders. We are surrendering to you," he said, nodding to B.A. and Face in turn. They wore sour expressions but obligingly placed their rifles on the floor. Eight Black Foxes swarmed in, collecting the weapons and patting down Face, who merely seemed chagrined, and B.A., who appeared ready to explode.

"You're sure not amateurs; you stayed ahead of us for a few hours. I'm impressed." Redthorn turned over Hannibal's .45 in his hands. "So what are you? FBI, ATF? They usually don't pack this kind of heat."

Hannibal's eyes were twin chips of blue ice. "Everyone always asks us that, but those guys have a few too many rules and regs for our liking. And before you so rudely kicked down the door, friend, we were also discussing the unsolved disappearance of Ronin O'Faolan, and how you guys seem like persons of interest in that case."

For just a moment, there was a twinge of fear in the deputy's proud façade. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The two men's faces were mere inches apart. "I think you do."

There was no visible reaction this time, only Redthorn blinking his liquid black eyes slowly. "There anyone else here with you three? What happened to that other guy that was with you, the one wearing that bomber jacket?"

Face spoke up. "He's not feeling well, so we sent him to see the school nurse for an ice pack." The man standing next to him swung his rifle butt hard into Face's unprotected stomach.

Hannibal finished for him. "We sent him scouting ahead for some medical help. Lost contact with him a couple hours ago, so if you guys didn't run across him, there's no telling where he is now. He certainly isn't here."

"There were fresh tracks leading here. Search the place," Redthorn commanded the men who weren't covering B.A. and Face. As they started to look up and down the cabin, he leaned in closer to Hannibal. His black hair smelled of something powerfully herbal. "What about the bitch? You happen across her, cowboy?" Even his clothes carried the scent.

"To borrow your own phrase, friend, I don't know what you're talking about."

Redthorn's right hand met Hannibal's cheek. "I hate it when someone lies to me. Where is she?" His low voice was becoming more snakelike with every syllable.

Hannibal smiled. "You need some practice with that. As for this girl you're asking about, I'm really not sure where she is, but I hear Tahiti is lovely this time of year. Or Acapulco. Right, Face?"

"Yeah, or even Key West," said Face, still trying to catch his breath.

The first sparks of real anger danced in Redthorn's eyes. "Let's just see how many bad jokes you can make as you're slowly bleeding to death. You could have had it quick and painless, but I'm having second thoughts. Take 'em," he growled, flicking a glance at the man nearest him.

"Speaking of which, I'll take a pint of O-negative for the road if you've got it," cracked Hannibal as he was hoisted roughly to his feet. The Black Foxes behind Face and a still steamed-looking B.A. prodded their prisoners along with their rifles.

The man who seemed to be the second-in-command gave Redthorn an odd-looking salute with his left hand. "Nobody else here, boss, but it sure _smells_ like somebody else was here."

The leader of the Black Foxes nodded. "No need to worry, Cragan. I can sense it too. When we find their other man…and we will…we'll take care of him too." His was the look of a predator anticipating a fresh kill.

"We gonna take care of you and yo' redneck friends, sucka!" snapped B.A., unable to contain himself, as he was frog-marched past.

Redthorn, nonplussed, shot back a lopsided smile. "Interesting, coming from a man who's outnumbered and helpless at the moment."

"Let it go, B.A.," urged Hannibal, right behind him. "Now, about my O-negative?" He fluttered his eyelashes delicately at his captor.

The steady torrent of wisecracks broke the dam of Redthorn's temper. "Shut Rodney Dangerfield here up, gag 'im if you've got to! Tie 'em all up and put 'em in that wagon. Reed, Stansfield, if they try anything, fill 'em with lead."

"Guess the blood's out; no pun intended. Maybe I'll just settle for some Sauvignon Blanc instead…" Hannibal trailed off as someone tied a sweat-stained gag tightly around his mouth.

"Can't go wrong with a 1977 Burgundy, either." Face was likewise silenced in the next moment.

As the captive A-Team was pushed outside, Redthorn paused, eyes flicking over Moira's quarters as if he'd missed something. Then, seemingly satisfied, he stepped over the fallen-in door and left it behind him.

Ten minutes came and went, which felt more like an hour to someone contorted in the tight confines of a steamer trunk. The lid raised a cautious inch, then another, as Murdock scanned his field of vision for either friend or foe. Seeing neither, he popped out like a lanky jack-in-the-box, rubbing at his numb extremities.

"Hannibal, guys, I'm c-comin', I promise…" he muttered, teeth chattering. The brief time between his arrival at the cabin and that of Redthorn's men had not given him opportunity to find replacement clothes.

Murdock sat by the remains of the fire for a moment, grateful for its warmth. He tried to pull at his cap brim, then realized it was missing, along with the rest of his effects. Only his favorite Woody Woodpecker boxers, as well as a Browning rifle with perhaps half a clip and a .45 with four rounds, remained on his person after his flight through the woods. He thought hard, trying to remember exactly what might have transpired to cause him to disrobe, in enemy territory, deep into October, but came up empty.

But the moon remained full, even if it had retreated behind a veil of clouds just before he'd made it to Moira's cabin. He shuddered. It wasn't safe for anyone in his condition to be out at all. He'd made a promise to Hannibal, though, and he knew he had to keep it.

Having warmed up, he started looking for something, anything, to cover himself. On the cot where Hannibal had been was a rough-woven tartan blanket. Murdock held it up to his waist as if it were a kilt, then flung it aside in disgust. His unit needed him, and come hell or high water, he _was_ going to help them, even if it meant going into battle like an ancient Greek warrior.

"Are they gone?"

He wheeled around. In the doorway stood Moira, her head hung low.

"Yeah, sweet cheeks, they're gone." His drawl was thick with annoyance. He picked up a tiny tea cozy and tossed it atop the blanket. "As if you care, right? Didn't you say somethin' about a battle you had to fight alone?"

"Aye, that I did." Her eyes, softer now, met his. "Ye may have heard the phrase 'harm none,' but that don't apply when ye've first been harmed yerself."

Murdock fixed her with the kind of intense gaze that usually got him thrown into the room with the rubber walls. "That's all well and good, but my guys are in trouble, and I don't have the time right now for pretty platitudes."

Moira nodded. "But that's why I came back, lad. Tae help ye."

"Well, if you want to help me, and my guys, you could start by gettin' me some clothes. I can't track 'em down lookin' like this," he admitted.

She pushed aside the cot and started prying a loose floorboard out. "Dad's things, at least some of 'em. Should fit ye just about right."

As Moira continued to work, Murdock edged closer to the fireplace. "I don't wanna be rude, muchacha, but if Redthorn and those other guys killed your old man, why haven't you done anything about it, anyway?"

"Who'd believe a witch 'round here? I'm damn lucky I've not been burned at the stake, and luckier still tha' a good man like Hayward Hawkins is mayor o' this burgh and not a bigot like Prescott or worse, Redthorn." She disappeared for a brief moment and came up with a smaller, musty-looking trunk.

"So why don't you just move? San Francisco, maybe? Or Oregon?" asked Murdock.

A look of exasperation. "I told ye, my duty's tae protect these woods. Can't just up and leave on some kinda lark."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Moira's amber eyes blinked at him. "I've my own reasons. Ye…wouldna understand." Her tone suggested she wanted to change the subject, and quickly. From the trunk, she pulled a pair of buckskin trousers, a roughspun tunic similar to her own, and moccasins. "Put these on, lad, before ye catch yer death o' cold…"

He did, tugging on the breeches, which were comfortable and broken in, if a bit too short. "I'm goin' to get my guys. Whether you want to help or not is up to you." His head disappeared momentarily as he pulled on the tunic, overlarge on his gangly frame.

"And what o' yer curse?" she asked quietly.

In the firelight, Murdock's dark eyes were wide, two astonished commas. He swallowed. "Is this really gonna happen every full moon?"

She put a finger to her chin. "Ye brought back mistletoe and wolfbane before, am I right?"

"Yeah. Findin' that stuff was no picnic." Murdock scowled. "What's it for?"

Moira picked up the crumpled paper bag from the kitchen table. Redthorn and his men had left it untouched.

"It's fer you, lad. Keeps the worst of it at bay, it does. Take this wi' you, and Brigid's blessing, and no harm shall come tae you." She slipped the medicine bag into his pocket.

"What if I…you know…start to _change_?" Murdock said, trembling even though he was no longer cold.

Her grin was a savage crescent. "Well, then, Redthorn'd be fightin' a wolf, and not a man." She turned, and fetched a small bottle of kelly-green liquid from one of several racks in the kitchen. "Meant tae give this to yer silver-haired friend earlier; fer the pain, ye know. Make sure 'e drinks it all. He's quite a spitfire, that one. Reminds me a bit o' Dad." There was that look again, a curious mixture of anger and regret.

"Last call before I head out. You got any idea where those fellas hole up, 'cause that would be helpful." Murdock tugged on the moccasins one by one.

Moira shook her dark head, the floppy hat wobbling. "Told ye before, I can't say no more."

"Sooner or later those crazies are gonna catch up to you, too, muchacha, and then you know what'll happen. You gotta take a stand sometime," Murdock said, his voice unusually solemn. "Believe me, I know all about crazies." Solemnity gave way to dark-humored irony.

"Follow the wagon tracks. They'll be takin' yer friends to the Ostermann place, I think." She paused. "And try not tae get killed, all right?"

Murdock gathered his rifle and sidearm, and cast one more glance over his shoulder. "If Charlie couldn't kill me, I don't think these rubes will be able to either." He flashed his teeth, eyes ablaze with mad determination. "'Specially if I'm fightin' on four legs. _Adios_, and thanks for the supplies. Just remember what I said." Then he was gone, one more shadow among many.

"You guys really need to have this suspension looked at. In fact, our friend Mr. Baracus here is excellent, and he'd be happy to look at it with no charge. And don't we get some hot cider on this nice little hayride, or what?"

Face prattled on, just trying to keep warm, a cheery smile plastered across his features. Reed and Stansfield, the two Black Foxes assigned to guard the A-Team, had removed their gags a mile back, and were sorry for it now. The two-horse wagon continued on through the night, its bed jouncing at every step. The horses seemed to know where they were going despite only the weak light provided by two kerosene lanterns and the full moon, which had reappeared from behind the clouds.

"I told you guys to shut up, didn't I?" Stansfield, the man holding the reins, shot back wearily.

"We're not very good listeners," piped up Hannibal, his spirits high despite the cold, his wound, and having his hands tied. "My guess, Face, is that they pawned their pickups to pay for multiple visits to the dentist, which is why they got stuck with this old trap…"

"Can it!" hollered Reed, raising his rifle as if to strike with it.

"Better not, sucka," rumbled B.A., watching as the man quickly lowered the weapon.

"Guys, any idea as to our ETA? I'm dying to order a room service cheeseburger," Hannibal asked hopefully.

Reed smiled without a trace of humor. "Just keep thinking 'dying,' smartass, and you've got the right idea."

"Okay, then, no cheeseburger. It's been a while since I've had a French dip, though…"

As Reed turned to mutter something to Stansfield, B.A. leaned in and whispered hoarsely. "You better have a plan, Hannibal."

"Don't I always?" The familiar grin returned, minus its usual cigar.

"And does it involve Murdock, who, as far as we know, still thinks he's Lon Chaney?" Face asked with concern.

Hannibal continued to smile. "Yeah. But he did save you from that guy using you as a punching bag last month in Long Beach, didn't he?"

"I had that situation firmly under control! He just stumbled into it. And besides, he was only being Ricky "the River" Flacco, the poker shark, that time…not running on all fours and scratching all over for fleas," objected Face.

B.A. grunted. "Foo' better show up quick, before we end up bein' room service cheeseburgers."

As they spoke, the wagon drew to a halt. Reed, his eyes wary, kept his rifle pointed at the three prisoners. Stansfield hopped down from the driver's seat and beckoned with his own weapon for them to exit.

"Out. No funny stuff, either."

"Damn, and I just heard this great joke about a Buddhist monk and a yeti who walk into a bar in Tibet…" Hannibal tried to snap his fingers together but couldn't.

They were shepherded along, trying not to trip over the protruding roots of a giant oak which stood beside what appeared to be a smaller version of the Osborne barn.

"Where's Redthorn? I didn't see him after we left the cabin," Face said under his breath, just loud enough for Hannibal to hear.

"Probably went back to finish them dogfights," B.A. suggested.

Hannibal gave it a moment of thought. "I don't think so. He seemed pretty eager to finish us off, so my guess is he's cooking something special up for us. Just like Decker…always gives us just enough time to think…"

"Inside. Don't bother trying to escape. We'll be watching you." Stansfield shoved the three of them into the confines of the barn and slammed the door. The sound of a heavy bolt being slid into place followed.

The space the A-Team found themselves in was dark aside from a single overhead light high in the rafters. It also smelled like it was currently in use, perhaps for the wagon team outside. But best of all, in addition to bales of hay, feed buckets and sacks of chicken feed, there was a smorgasbord of farm equipment, baling wire, hand tools, and a two-wheeled hay cart.

Hannibal flicked a glance at B.A., whose eyes had gone wide with delight. "You see, Sergeant? If you just keep a positive outlook, something's bound to go right sooner or later."

"Yeah, I might be able to do somethin' with all this." B.A. flexed his wrists hard, then relaxed, loosening the knots that bound them together. He moved to untie Face, whose nose was turned up at the ambient barnyard smell.

"Was this part of your plan, too, Hannibal?" asked the lieutenant, freed of his bonds.

Hannibal eyed the cart. "No, Face, but sometimes a good plan just comes together all at once." He grinned. "B.A., remember that special project you did for General Mowery that one time?" he asked, rubbing at his chin in thought.

The big man glowered at the memory. "You mean, before I threw a haymaker at that rat-faced sucka?"

"Yeah. Think you could manage that again?"

B.A. flashed a sheepish smile of his own. "I'll be workin' on a tighter schedule, but I think I can do it."

"Right. While we're waiting for Redthorn to get back, let's go ahead and keep ourselves busy. If he's gonna be throwing a big party, we wouldn't want to show up without any presents for him…"


	8. Battle Plans and Fractured Fairy Tales

"Nice, B.A." Hannibal looked the hay cart, which had been gradually turning into something far more deadly over the last two hours, up and down with satisfaction.

From underneath, the other man flashed a thumbs-up. "Few more adjustments, and we're ready to roll," he said.

Face leaned against a stack of hay bales. "And I didn't even have to lie to some sweet little country girl to get us an outboard motor, or some armor plating, or any of our usual accessories. These rubes were kind enough to provide us with everything we needed," he said, smirking.

"Didn't see you helpin' out much, Faceman," B.A. chided, shaking an Allen wrench at him.

"Well, B.A., someone needed to offer moral support, and assist in the, uh, planning stages of the construction," Face offered.

B.A. growled and went back to work. "Hannibal, how we doin' on time?"

"Depends on what you're talking about. I figure Redthorn should be coming back with reinforcements before dawn, which should be around oh-six hundred this time of year. Our present there is just about done, right?"

"Right, man." B.A. tightened one last socket under the left wheel and pulled himself out from underneath.

"Then we have plenty of time." Hannibal grinned.

Face shifted position, itching at the sensation of the hay against his still-damp clothes. "What if he gets here sooner? Are we going to hope Murdock gets us out of a jam? On all fours, more than likely?"

"That's only a safety valve, Lieutenant. And when he does get here, Redthorn won't be expecting him. Either way, we have the element of surprise," said Hannibal, a fresh El Capitan having appeared in his fingers like magic. "Got a light?"

Face's jaw was slack. "I thought you smoked your last reserve back at the Hawkinses'?"

"The difference between a merely average strategist and a great one: having reserves of reserves for the most precarious situation."

"How'd you manage to keep it dry all this time?"

There was a familiar twinkle in Hannibal's eye. "You never told me how you got that Caddy in the jungles of Nam, so I'm claiming 'trade secret' too."

B.A. offered a lit match. "We been pretty damn lucky already with all these 'reserves' and 'safety valves' for one night, Hannibal," he grumbled. "What makes you think our luck gonna continue?"

"If you keep flipping a coin, and it keeps coming up tails, it's got to land on heads sooner or later." Hannibal pulled deeply on his cigar, a blissful expression on his features. "We're due for a break."

Face and B.A. exchanged a quick, worried look.

"Not if you're in Vegas, sucka," B.A. reminded him. "House always wins."

"We're a long way from Vegas, Sergeant." He blew a smoke ring, barely visible in the dim light.

"What I can't understand," Face said, giving up on the hay bales in favor of a rusty milk bucket, "is why those guys would want to kill us just for dropping in on a dogfight. Redthorn didn't even seem like he wanted to be there. And what's the deal with this whole Brotherhood of the Black Fox? Is that some kind of Cherokee version of the Lions Club?"

Hannibal took a seat opposite him on the toolbox B.A. had been using. "No telling. Mrs. Hawkins did say they were dealing drugs, and that was pretty obvious. But since when have sleazebags like Prescott or Redthorn ever played by the rules anyway? It wouldn't be as much fun if they were the Vienna Boys' Choir, now, would it?" His voice was that of an eager schoolboy.

"If they were, you might not have gotten shot," Face said, pointing to the blood-stained rag tied around Hannibal's thigh. "How are you holding up, anyway?"

With a heave, B.A. lifted a last piece of corrugated metal from its place by the wall. "He's on the jazz, man. Don't matter if he's wounded or not. Remember that time we tailed those Cong snipers down into that ravine?"

Face's mouth quirked at the corners. "Don't remind me."

"He's right, Face. This isn't half as bad as that operation was, and besides, I didn't have a cigar to smoke then. That's why I was in such low spirits."

"Oh. And all this time I thought it was because of the flak grenade. That's why the reserves of reserves now, right?"

"Exactly." Another smoke ring.

"You wanna give me a hand with this, Faceman?" B.A. called, lifting the metal plate into position.

Face sighed. "Well, if I must."

Hannibal gave his most sad-eyed, pathetic look. "Go on, Lieutenant. Bad leg and all, you know." A wry smile followed.

As Face held up the plate, B.A. soldered it into place with the portable welding torch he'd found earlier in a jumble of tools. When he'd finished, he raised the goggles from his eyes and looked over his creation with pride. "Bet that sucka General Mowery never imagined somethin' like this."

What had been a simple wooden hay cart was now an Industrial Age version of a horse-drawn caisson, its sides plated with spare sheet metal and wheels rimmed with more of the same. A wicked-looking tubular weapon stood in the bed on a swivel stand. All that was missing was a pair of armored chargers between the shafts, which B.A. immediately seemed to notice.

"Gotta get them horses from outside, Hannibal."

"Face? How about it?"

One finger stroked at his chin in thought. "I don't think they'd respond well to the old 'asking nicely with a cherry on top' trick, so how about I just wait until Lenny and Squiggy out there decide to bring us some bread crusts and water?"

Hannibal frowned, pulling the cigar from his mouth for a moment. "Come on, Face, a couple of civvie guards with peashooters? You don't even have to break a sweat for that."

"Yeah, man, we need somethin' to pull this thing." B.A. added his own, more intense scowl. "Otherwise I just made us a real fancy paperweight."

"Okay, okay. I didn't say I wouldn't do it, guys. I just need to think of, well, the right approach for this particular situation. As for breaking a sweat, I don't think that's going to be a problem," he said, shivering slightly as he had been practically all night.

Before he could take action, there was the unmistakeable sound of the bolt being slid from its position at the door. B.A. quickly threw a canvas cover over the caisson as Hannibal muttered a few words in Face's ear.

"Just get his weapon. I'll handle the rest."

But it was neither Reed nor Stansfield, or even Redthorn, who appeared at the doorway.

"What the hell took you so long, fool?" B.A. stood with hands on hips.

Murdock sidled in, wolflike even on two legs, a guilty smile on his face. "Colonel, those two guys are gonna be dreamin' of a white Christmas for at least an hour or so." He handed Hannibal the two deer rifles and cheap sidearm he'd taken from the sentries.

"Nice, Captain. Good work. Any sign of more?"

B.A., still furious, grabbed Murdock by the collar before he could answer. "You better not have led more of them Black Foxes here."

With a patient hand, Hannibal separated the two. "B.A., let him go. They already know we're here, remember?"

Eyebrows arched, Murdock made a face that was as close to serious as he ever attempted. "But little did they know that a full-blown lycanthrope, on the night of a full moon, no less, awaited to thwart their sinister plans," he intoned, sounding like the deadpan narrator from the _Rocky and Bullwinkle_ cartoons he loved so much.

"But Murdock, you didn't, you know, _change_. And you're wearing clothes. Are you feeling all right?" asked Face only half-jokingly.

"The curse holds no sway when the moon is veiled by clouds, O Facial One. And behold," he continued, pulling a crumpled paper bag from his pocket, "mistletoe and wolfbane, provided by a fair enchantress to alleviate my pain and suffering…"

"You ran into Moira?" interrupted Face. "After that whole 'Rambina' act of hers, she actually came back?"

B.A. stamped one booted foot. "We don't need her, so quit your crazy talk and go get them horses, fool!"

Murdock snapped to attention. "I'm on it, big guy."

"Man, they better not have done somethin' to my ride," B.A. murmured, stroking the sides of the caisson like a beloved pet. "Or that tremor machine. Took me forever to build that baby."

"It's still in the van?" Face asked nervously.

"Yes, _Dr. Colston_. Don't you remember putting it back this morning?" Hannibal joked.

Face blinked. "You mean yesterday morning, Hannibal. We're going on almost twenty-four hours here, and I for one could use a cup of coffee."

"All in good time, Lieutenant."

"What about my van?"

Hannibal spoke soothingly. "We'll get it back, B.A. And our weapons."

Murdock led the team in from outside, pulling on their reins gently. He spoke softly to them as they walked along. "Don't you fellas worry for a minute. I'm under control, and besides, only if I were in the deepest throes of hunger would I even think about eating such magnificent beasts as yourselves…"

"You better stop yo' Dr. Doolittle act real quick, 'cause I sure ain't under control!" snarled B.A.

"Don't mind him. He's just one insensitive angry mudsucker, and he lacks empathy and compassion." Murdock scratched between the ears of the larger horse, who whinnied. "Good thing he's not the cursed one, right?"

"Murdock, would you just hitch them up? I think I've seen enough blood for one night," Face said, "and the sooner we finish off Redthorn and Prescott, the sooner we all get dry clothes, and something hot to eat, and…"

"Espresso?" Hannibal interjected with a sly smile.

A groan. "That too."

There was the sound of footsteps at the door. "I thought you said those guys were out cold," Hannibal said to Murdock.

"Like Minneapolis in January, Colonel."

"Who's there?" Face and Hannibal raised the confiscated deer rifles. "Show yourself." They lowered them when they saw the visitor's floppy hat and duster through the darkness.

"Well, if it isn't Glinda, the Good Witch," shot Face. "You bring the Lollipop Guild here with you?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, Moira shook her head. "I feel like I owe yer a full explanation. Didna ye say ye wanted one?" She tossed the vial with the green liquid to Hannibal, who caught it in midair. "Forgot to give ye that earlier for the pain, lad."

B.A. fixed her with a frosty stare. "Lady, we don't need nothin' right now but dry clothes and some more firepower, and I ain't in the mood for some crazy fairy tale. If I wanted that, I'd jus' let this fool here do the talkin'," he said wearily, gesturing to Murdock, who was tightening harness straps.

Hannibal gulped down the liquid in one swallow, then spoke. "There is some missing piece in all this. Why would a guy like Redthorn, who's obviously no dummy, be in cahoots with a redneck slimeball like Prescott? Like you said, Face, it doesn't add up." To Moira, he added, "Go ahead. We're all ears, at least until that psychotic Boy Scout troop shows back up."

She sat down across from Face on the hay bales. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seemed somehow more prominent in the dim light. "Where shall I begin? Redthorn's a monster; that much ye know already. If 'e were only a man, well, maybe I'd have been able to destroy 'im by now, take the vengeance for Dad's murder. But 'e's not just a man; but a shaman, and a powerful 'un."

"A shaman?" Face's eyes widened in spite of himself. "What exactly does that mean?"

"No, man. Shaman's an Indian medicine man." It was B.A. who spoke. "Travels between worlds, speaks to the dead, walks in dreams. Nothin' to mess around with."

Moira nodded. "Yer friend's right. Redthorn's a dark shaman, the kind whose travels can only be accomplished through continual blood sacrifice."

Hannibal puffed at the last of his cigar. "Let me guess. Redthorn needed more and more sacrifices, so he allied himself with the one guy in this county who could get him what he wanted without question, and profit from it at the same time."

"Trey Prescott and Redthorn trust each other about as much as deer and wildcats, but one couldna exist without the other," Moira said, her voice husky with exhaustion. "Trey 'as those dogfights, and gives Redthorn a cut of those poor animals 'e takes from the families 'round here. Both enjoy blood sport, but in different ways." She shuddered.

"So how'd you and your father get mixed up in all this?" asked Face.

For the first time, emotion washed over her. She dabbled at her eyes with one sleeve. "I once loved Ike so much. 'E was intelligent, handsome, and most of all, 'e accepted me for what I was."

Face's lips curled in a half-smile. "What, after you came out of the broom closet?"

"Face…"

"Sorry." He stopped smiling. "Go on."

Moira seemed to find his joke funny, and smiled weakly through her tears. "No, 'e always knew. About me, and Dad. Ike and I took the oath of _anamchara_, soul-mates, and promised we'd never leave each other. We were tae be married, and then…" She trailed off. "Then 'e started changin'. Gatherin' followers, some of 'em Cherokee or half-bloods, some just ignorant hill folk with a longin' fer power. The Black Foxes. 'E wanted me to join 'im, told me our combined powers would make us invincible."

"You were gonna marry some crackpot like that?" B.A. said, incredulous. "You may be weird, lady, but you ain't stupid."

"Sounds like somebody I know well," Murdock muttered, shooting an annoyed glance at B.A.

"Shut up, fool!" barked B.A.

Hannibal held his hands up. "Would you guys just let her finish already?"

"Ike offered me one last chance tae join 'im and 'is cult. I refused, told 'im I wouldn't kill innocent creatures in the name o' magick. 'E was furious, in a blood rage. He broke our oath, and killed me father in cold blood." She held up her left hand. The pinkie was missing. "A warning, then 'e told me never tae cross 'im again, or else I'd join Dad. I'm lucky 'e didn't kill me right then an' there."

"Do you have any direct evidence to link him to your father's murder? Most of what you've said would be your word against his, and even if he's a slimebag, he's the deputy around here." Hannibal flicked the cigar stub aside.

She took off her hat. There were streaks of grey mixed in with the sable brown. "Not as such. I know Prescott 'elped Ike hide Dad's body somewhere. But that could be anywhere."

Face and Murdock glanced at each other. "There's a workshed outside the constable station; pretty heavily padlocked for just a bunch of garden tools and old coffee cans," Face offered. "Damn, there's that word again…"

Hannibal cupped a hand underneath his chin. "That was the one you couldn't get into earlier, right, Face?"

"Okay, enough with 'Torment Templeton Peck Night' already, Hannibal…"

B.A. looked over the caisson, which was now fully complete with the team between the shafts. "What you got in mind, Hannibal? I know you ain't gonna sit here and wait for 'em."

"What I've got in mind," said the colonel, sparks of ingenuity dancing in his eyes, "is taking the offensive position, not to mention using the element of surprise. If we find what I think we're gonna find in that shed, we'll have enough evidence to bring down Prescott and Redthorn in one fell swoop. Somehow I don't think there'll be anyone at a small-town constable's office at," he glanced at his watch, "quarter to five in the morning. And if there is, well, we get to unwrap the present early." He looked to his men, grinning.

"Moon's still out, Colonel. Do I dare disturb the universe, the whims of fate?" Murdock, with his pale face, mismatched clothes and hair standing on end, looked like an extra in a poorly made zombie movie.

B.A. waved a heavy fist in his direction. "You ain't nothin' but a crazy man who thinks he's turnin' into a wolf. If you don't stop yo' jibba-jabba, I'm gonna disturb your universe real bad!"

Face turned to Moira, who had gone quiet. "What about you? Are you coming or staying?"

"I'm stayin'." Her voice, a hoarse whisper, was resolute. "Done more than I reckoned I would already."

"These scumbags killed your father, honey, and all you want to do is stay behind every time?" Hannibal said, using a broken broom handle as leverage to rise to his feet. "You seem awfully indecisive for someone who wants revenge so badly."

She seemed to have aged in just a few hours; her face was that of a haggard, middle-aged woman. "I like the four o' you; ye really have good hearts. But…it's complicated."

"Complicated enough for you to stand by and watch Redthorn overrun this valley? You said it was your calling to be a protector," said Face, "and we could use an extra hand if you want to help."

"Momma, Redthorn ain't gonna be satisfied wit' just killin' animals forever. He and them Black Foxes will come back for you one of these days," B.A. added, echoing Murdock's earlier warning.

She looked to the A-Team and their armored caisson, to each of their faces, then finally to her moccasins. "I've made my choice. Tyr and Epona go with ye," she whispered finally, looking more ashamed than before.

"Let's go, guys," Hannibal urged his men. "Thanks for that green stuff, whatever it was. And don't bother following us if you're not going to help this time," he called over his shoulder to Moira, who was still staring at the dirt floor.

Outside, the pre-dawn air was crisp and cold, and the wind had died down. "Hannibal, did you really have to talk to her that way?" asked Face with sympathy.

"Yeah, I did, Face." Hannibal didn't look back. "We're on hostile territory, and I don't have the time to babysit some woman who never can make up her mind, and is probably a little stir-crazy from living out here in the woods by herself." His blue eyes turned to the younger man. "Besides, we're not working for Moira, or her dear departed father. The Hawkinses were the ones who hired us, and we're trying to nail Prescott and Redthorn for them, not her."

"She's one weird girl, man," concurred B.A., holding the team's reins. "Jus' like Murdock. We gonna head back into Possum Lodge?"

Hannibal nodded. "Right. Since we're fresh out of bread crumbs, we're gonna have to leave Redthorn another kind of easy trail to follow. Murdock, did you see those spray cans outside the door?"

"Yep. I got 'em, Colonel." He cocked his head, then smiled. "I think I know what ya got in mind."

"Step lively, then."

Face checked the prone forms of Reed and Stansfield, who were indeed unconscious and bound. He frowned. "Are we really going to attack these guys on their own turf, then knock over their hidey-hole? Haven't we upset them already for one evening?"

Hannibal's expression was pure mischief. "As you said yourself, Face, we're into tomorrow already, so that makes the slate clean. Besides, in my experience, you can never annoy slimeballs like these guys too much. I've barely scratched the surface." Whatever was in the green potion seemed to have only increased his level of good cheer.

"Now, here's what we're gonna do…"


	9. Thrown For a Loup

**Chapter 9**

Possum Lodge was sleeping soundly, held in the gentle arms of the sandman, save for one persistent hound baying away somewhere in the hills. In this pre-dawn witching hour, not so much as a single streetlight glowed. It was as if the whole valley had been swallowed by the mist which had begun to form at the beginning of the A-Team's current overnight operation, and existed in its own snowglobe reality, tucked away from the rest of the world.

B.A. drew the team to a halt on the hill just above the constabulary. His breath, and that of the horses, came out in short, staccato wisps of vapor. Beside him, Hannibal, a Coleman lantern in his hand, squinted into the gloom.

"They ain't here, man."

"Oh, they will be." The older man grinned. Much of his vim and vigor had been restored by the potion. "We mailed them invitations and told them to RSVP." He turned in the seat. "Face, you want to try and finish what you started earlier?"

There was a groan from the rear of the caisson. "Don't you ever get tired of tearing holes in the delicate fabric of my self-esteem?"

Hannibal's cheeky smile remained. "No. How long do you think it'll take?" he asked, pointing to the locked workshed, a vague rectangular form hunched in the darkness.

"Now that I have the right tools, oh, let's say six minutes, tops?" guessed Face.

"I'll hold you to it. Murdock?"

"Yeah, Colonel?" Murdock's brown eyes were still wide, but focused and in the moment.

"I need you to keep an eye out for any unexpected company," Hannibal said, lowering his voice. "This is a private party."

Murdock nodded. "If anybody crashes the gate, they're gonna get a little surprise." He cradled the 30.06 in his arms the way a little girl would her favorite doll.

"That's a little different from a Browning. You okay with it?"

Now the feral gleam returned. "If I run outta ammo, that's even better, 'cause then I'll vanquish my foes with razor-sharp fangs and claws, tearin' at their mortal flesh…"

"Enough!" snapped B.A., so loudly the horses shied in their traces. "You better quit this crazy rap before I start tearin' at somethin'!"

Face shook his head as he hopped down from the armored cart. "Murdock, I'd listen to B.A. if I were you. I think we've seen enough blood for one night, okay?"

Living up to his nickname, the rangy pilot sprinted into the fringe of woods, keening, the rifle held above his head like some pagan sacrifice. "Crazy fool ain't right," B.A. said, repeating one of his favorite mantras. "You think he's gonna be okay?" he asked Hannibal.

"Even if things start to get hairy, I have every confidence in Murdock."

"Hairy's what I'm worried about. You always gotta humor him, man?"

"If I didn't, he might actually go sane on me." B.A. scowled as Hannibal continued to smile lopsidedly.

From his crouched position beside the workshed, Face swore under his breath. "Must be one of those new Swiss models. I can't even get this thing to squeak," he admitted, pulling a different lockpick from his pouch and starting to tinker.

"'Swiss models?'" Hannibal quipped, injecting some needed sarcasm. "Didn't you get your certification for those last year?"

"That was the Belgian model," answered Face. "Ursula, remember her? I met her at the premiere of _Ypres Creepers _back in June_._" Despite the cold, a warm, broad smile appeared on his lips.

Hannibal hobbled toward him. "What happened to her?"

The smile vanished; a scowl took its place. "Ran off with that Portuguese tennis pro. I swear, I'll never understand those European girls. Maybe if I took a Berlitz course next time?"

"Only to a tennis player does love mean nothing," joked Hannibal.

"Yeah, don't remind me." He groaned, remembering Ursula's mane of shiny, upswept brunette hair, tapered waist and heavenly bustline.

"You gonna pick that lock, or what, Face?" B.A. asked with growing impatience.

On cue, the tumbler gave way under Face's expert hands. "There, easy as pie. Gentlemen, shall we have a look?" he gloated, making a gesture like a headwaiter seating VIPs in Beverly Hills. The three men, as one, pushed the double doors open.

The workshed was completely empty.

"Can't say as I didn't try," Face muttered, disappointment oozing from his voice. "Five minutes and fifty-four seconds, exactly. Now why would they go to so much trouble to put that kind of lock on an empty shed?"

B.A. pointed to the ground. "Look at all them boot prints, all heavy. Somebody been movin' stuff outta here, and not too long ago."

Hannibal nodded his head in agreement. "They probably hightailed it back here as soon as we mentioned the connection to the O'Faolan case. Redthorn's smart enough to try and hide any incriminating evidence, and who knows what kind of junk Prescott may have had in here. They can't have moved whatever it was very far, so let's spread out and see what we find. Shall we?"

They started back up the hill towards the caisson. To the east, the first faint glow of dawn nudged at the dark horizon. Face felt his stomach rumble, and tried not to think of a perfectly rich espresso with a biscotti on the side. Hannibal gamely continued along on his injured leg, and B.A. kept a watchful eye for any visitors. Somewhere from the treeline at ten o'clock came the faintest strains of Murdock's lupine whimpers.

"There. Back in the saddle again." Hannibal stretched out his leg, seated atop the caisson once more. "You guys wanna try and find an IHOP while we wait on these scumbags to show?"

"I don't think we gotta wait, man." B.A. answered back, his voice like the low growl of an alert Doberman. Through the mist emerged one tall silhouette, then another, and perhaps a dozen more. The men behind each carried a lit torch and a rifle. One of them, looking like a dog anticipating a beating, was Trey Prescott, his red hair on end. The leader's identity was revealed in the broad beam of Face's flashlight, and he held a hand to his forehead, squinting.

Hannibal waved cheerfully as if he were sitting atop a Rose Bowl float. "Heya, Ike. I think happy hour's still on, so you might want to go back to that barn and tell your boys, so they don't miss out on the two-for-one margaritas."

The Cherokee did not return the sentiment. He held his ground, arms crossed, aloof as ever. "Didn't I tell you what I enjoy doing with wise guys like you?"

"Probably something involving entrails. If they make the shape of the sun, you kill us, and if it's the moon, you tickle us and send us home to our mommies, right?"

Redthorn's lips twitched the way they had when Hannibal had insulted him earlier. "You're just about right, friend, but you forgot that it's your entrails, and you forgot the part about what happens to anyone who insults the ways of my people."

"Oh. You mean we have to go to our rooms and watch _Captain Kangaroo _reruns?" asked Hannibal, grinning more broadly than before.

As Ike Redthorn whistled shrilly and lifted one hand to his men, Hannibal interrupted him. "Ah-ah, Deputy, before you go and do that, you should know that we found Ronin O'Faolan's remains, and he sure didn't die by falling off a stepladder."

Even in the gloom, Hannibal, B.A. and Face could clearly see Redthorn's Adam's apple bobbing, and the movements his lips made as they formed the word '_impossible_.' Beside him on the driver's seat, B.A. muttered, "You know what you're doin', man? We didn't find no remains."

"But we did get the reaction we wanted from him, and now he'll be able to take us right to 'em," Hannibal explained, his hands tightening on the stock of his rifle. "Face, get ready to roll here…"

"Yeah." Behind him, Face chambered a round and felt underneath the cloth sacking for one of the surprises B.A. had concocted back in the hay barn.

But Redthorn still did not budge. Instead, he spoke quietly in his low, sibilant voice. "Don't make any sudden moves. If you do, that little house over at First and Sycamore…and whoever's inside it at the moment…is gonna blow and not come down until somewhere over Atlanta, friend." To validate his claim he produced a remote control with a red button from his pocket. One finger hovered.

"Ain't nothin' but a coward that threatens defenseless old folks," roared B.A., employing every ounce of his restraint not to whip the horses into action.

"What's the plan now?" hissed Face from his position. "I don't think he's bluffing, Hannibal."

Hannibal's eyes were blue steel. "How long's it been since you fired one of those, Lieutenant? Remember your little bet with Franco back in 'Nam?"

Face groaned. "That was thirteen years ago! C'mon, Hannibal, this is no time for fun and games…"

"Just listen for your cue. And don't miss." Hannibal folded his arms, crossed his legs, and tried to look casual. "Well, friend, seems like you've got something we want, and we've got something you want. You guys ever hear of a Mexican standoff?"

"That's only in bad movies, and you've obviously seen your share of those," Redthorn huffed. "If you guys don't hightail it into the next county in twenty seconds, and forget everything you've seen tonight, I'll let your precious mayor and his wife live to see the sun rise."

Atop the caisson seat, B.A. held the reins tighter than a miser would a pack of newly minted twenties, while Hannibal cast his serene smile to the brightening eastern horizon. "What about us? After all we've been through, you're just going to let us go?"

"No, I never said that," Redthorn said. "I'll give you a head start, but then my brothers and I will hunt you down, punish your souls so that you'll never know rest, curse your houses for eternity, and then, maybe then, I'll kill you."

"Oh, good, I never liked my house much anyway," Hannibal admitted. "Way too much vacuuming to keep up with. Well, Deputy, it's been fun, but we'd better go. We'd hate to continue to be an albatross around your collective necks."

Redthorn blinked, stunned. "What the hell did he just say?" he said, turning to Cragan beside him.

"I said," Hannibal repeated himself emphatically, "we'd hate to be an _albatross_…"

The second time was a charm. Face sprung up from his hiding place, aimed the deer rifle, and fired true. Redthorn dropped the remote control with a shriek as the round zipped past his right hand.

"_Hyah_!" B.A. slapped the reins to the horses' hindquarters; they reared, then charged straight ahead into the line of Black Foxes, breaking their line. Next to him, Hannibal looked down the sights of his rifle and aimed at the closest target. Trey Prescott yelped and jumped a good three feet into the air as the round narrowly missed his left foot. B.A.'s heavy boot met the face of a Fox as the caisson thundered past; the man fell to earth like an empty grain sack.

Having pulled off his William Tell stunt for the night, Face reached for a more powerful weapon. Inside the dented, rusty can that still read _Tillman's Green Beans_ was a heady mixture of kerosene and lawn fertilizer. He clicked open his Zippo, lit the Molotov cocktail's rag fuse, and let it fly.

_Boom_! The constable's blue pickup with the chaser lights on top erupted in a bright fireball and keeled over. With a boyish grin, Face handed another can, this one having once held creamed corn, to Hannibal, who lit it and flung it in the path of another pickup. A larger explosion this time; the tank must have been full.

"B.A., turn us around!" shouted Hannibal, shoving a fresh round into his rifle chamber. The caisson had, in perhaps fifteen seconds, reached the bottom of the hill and left a singular wake of destruction.

Several of the men who weren't fleeing into the woods or down the hill fired directly at the A-Team, but B.A., as always, had done his work thoroughly. The rounds _pinged_ off the armor plating in tiny showers of sparks, leaving the shooters continuing on in vain. Meanwhile, B.A. a fierce grin on his face, wheeled the team about and lashed them into a gallop once more.

Hannibal didn't feel the throbbing pain in his thigh, or the chill he'd been fighting all night through his fatigues. Adrenaline surged through his body, a powerful, electric current. He drew his .45 and watched with satisfaction as the rounds found their marks at the feet of the enemy. The entire open meadow seemed to have turned into one big tap-dancing recital.

Another explosion rocked the pre-dawn silence; it was a wonder the whole town of Possum Lodge hadn't awoken by now and come to point and stare. Face, like B.A. and Hannibal, felt his veins throbbing in the midst of battle, but did not share their particular exhilaration. "That was the last of the Molotovs, Hannibal!" he shouted, loading the deer rifle with the second to last cartridge he carried. "Where's Redthorn?"

One of the rounds had found its mark in the deputy's lower leg, but he crawled along stubbornly on the bloodied ground, reaching for the detonator, which was currently just out of his reach.

"Face! Don't miss!" bellowed Hannibal.

Just before Face could squeeze the trigger, one of the Black Foxes, more out of luck than skill, thrust a sharpened staff into the path of the oncoming horses. In a terrifying instant the animals screamed, then stumbled and fell, sending the A-Team tumbling from their positions. Hannibal quickly righted himself to a kneeling position and sent his right fist hard into the midsection of the man carrying the staff.

"Now, Face!"

Redthorn almost had his fingers on the red button…

But it was not Templeton Peck who answered Hannibal's call. From the woods, like a maddened demon, came a blur of sable brown. Hannibal suddenly wondered what had been in the green potion, because the blur clearly had four legs.

And a long, bushy tail, and sharp fangs.

"NOOOOO!!!" Ike Redthorn's haughtiness and pride was gone; his was the cry of a man looking into the deepest recesses of hell. The creature, a huge, dark shadow, had its jaws fastened around Redthorn's shoulder and shook him back and forth like a rag doll. When the leader of the Black Foxes reached for the dagger at his waist, the beast raked his forearm with its claws, causing his wails of pain to reach a higher octave still. With freakish strength, he was dragged away, up the hill, by the nightmarish thing.

Face, from where he'd fallen, grabbed his rifle. When he saw the bizarre sight before him, he could only watch, mouth agape. Beside him, B.A. could only do the same.

"Man, it can't be," B.A. gasped, more out of sheer surprise than out of landing awkwardly on the ground. "That just ain't happenin'!"

"Get that caisson back up, Lieutenant! Sergeant, arm yourself!" Hannibal, despite his shock at the sequence of events, was all business. "Where's that detonator?"

In the fray, everyone had all but forgotten Trey Prescott. Favoring his uninjured side, the crooked constable limped up the hill and snatched the remote control from the ground, seeing the astonished faces of the A-Team before him.

"I guess this night ain't been too bad after all. I git that damn half-breed and his crazy-ass hoodoo cult outta my way, and I git to put away some damn meddlin' Yankees," he spouted maniacally, waving the device in the air. "I'm gonna be rich, yessirree…" As he continued to hop up and down in place, the first rays of sunlight bathed the valley in a golden glow.

"Pardon me?"

Prescott felt the tap on his shoulder, and turned around. His toothy grin morphed into an "O" of horror right just before the right hand of H.M. Murdock connected hard with his jaw. The tall pilot's face was a mask of fury; his dark hair stood on end. He threw punch after punch, each one with a tagline.

"That's for those poor dogs you guys killed…that one's for Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins…that one there's for that big ugly mudsucker right over yonder…"

Before Murdock could turn the constable's bloodied face into a modern version of a Picasso painting, Face ran over and forcibly restrained him.

"Murdock, for God's sake, don't kill him!"

The only other time Face had ever seen his friend like this, he'd just been booked for a one-week sojourn in the room with the rubber walls. Then, he finally noticed.

"Are you…okay?"

"_Damn, _fool!" B.A. managed the only two words that occurred to him.

Hannibal was silent. Then he spoke, a wry smile just underneath.

"Captain. At ease."

The sun had peeked over the first hill, and every inch of Murdock's skin that wasn't covered in some kind of debris was pale and streaked with cold sweat. He didn't look like a man to be trifled with, perhaps because of his lack of blue Woody Woodpecker boxers, or anything else, for that matter. His eyes were aglow with unearthly fire, which dimmed somewhat as he looked from Hannibal to B.A. to Face and their astonished expressions.

"Hey, fellas." One hand reached up to smooth down his ruffled hair. "I, uh, miss anything?"

"Did you miss anything? Did you _miss _anything?" spouted Face. "Well, other than…you know…teeth and claws? Fur?" Face mimicked the sounds of the creature that had dragged Redthorn screaming into the woods.

The mad gleam in Murdock's eyes had changed back to its familiar mischievous twinkle. "Honestly, Faceman, sometimes I think _you're _the one who needs intensive psychotherapy, not me."

B.A. was still too stunned to scowl. "Man, if you ain't no wolf, then what the hell was that?" He pointed one ring-encrusted finger towards the woods. "Ain't all three of us hallucinatin'. That thing was _real_." The last word was an oath.

Hannibal rubbed at his chin in thought. "I think maybe there is an explanation. A rational explanation," he said, reassuring Face and B.A. "Murdock wasn't alone out there. He had a little help."

"What you talkin' about, sucka! 'Course he was alone!"

"Yeah, Hannibal, just the four of us came out here, and…"

He trailed off, pointing, the words caught in a lump of terror in his mouth. Just behind the _au naturel _form of Murdock stood the creature. In the early morning light, it appeared less like a demon and more like what it really was: a huge, sable-brown wolf with streaks of silver through its shaggy fur. Amber eyes glowed in its strangely intelligent countenance, and its tongue lolled out in what looked like a friendly grin. It held up its left front paw as if to give a high-five.

The pinkie digit was gone.

"Good to see you," said Hannibal. "I was wondering whether you'd show."

The wolf gave a lupine version of an _aw-shucks _shrug and crouched down in a submissive, "pet-me" position.

"So…if that wasn't Murdock…" Face could still hardly believe what he was seeing, and kept his distance. "Why didn't you just tell us?"

Moira fixated him with one golden eye. _Like ye'd have believed me, _ Sassenach, it seemed to say.

"And Murdock?"

"Colonel?"

Hannibal was clearly just a few pieces away from completing the massive mental jigsaw puzzle that had been their mission to Possum Lodge, and he smiled. "I've just got to know one thing."

"Yeah?"

"Why the…uh…natural look?"

Murdock straightened in a huff. "You know the lighter I am, the faster I can run."

"And why the hell were you runnin' when we was fightin', fool?" B.A. asked, raising one eyebrow.

"C'mon, big guy, when I heard Redthorn say that bomb was sittin' underneath the Hawkins' cute little bungalow, I couldn't just sit around and wait, now, could I?"

"And the bomb is where now?" interrupted Face, eyes wide.

"Let me guess." Hannibal smirked and picked up the remote control. He pushed the red button.

A final, thundering explosion sounded across the valley. Only one person in Possum Lodge lived at that precise location, and he wouldn't be very happy about it. Of course, his home would hopefully be elsewhere for a very long time, if not forever…

"I love it when a plan comes together! Face, you got a cigar?"

The younger man's lips quirked. "My reserves of reserves. Just for you." He held out a dry El Capitan, which Hannibal accepted.

Murdock felt warm fur rubbing against his bare legs. The she-wolf looked at him with sadness in her eyes, then to the sun, then to the form of the full moon, still hanging in the eastern sky.

"Okay, muchacha, I get it. You gotta go. But we'll always remember you." He dropped to one knee to offer a hug. She growled softly, showing her fangs.

"Or not. You just take care of your fine self, all right? Don't eat any baby bunnies, or squirrels, or…"

"Jus' let her go, fool!"

"Thanks for your help." Hannibal nodded curtly and smiled around his cigar. Face waved, not knowing exactly how to send off the strangest woman…wolf…whatever…that he'd ever met. B.A., skeptic of skeptics, held up one hand in salute.

Moira O'Faolan raised her head to the sky and sang, yelping. Then she loped back into the confines of her sylvan home, one more shadow among many. The A-Team stared at the spot where she had stood for a moment, each of them still awed in his own way.

"Face?"

"Yeah, Hannibal?"

"How far did you say the closest hospital was?"

"Colonel, I'm _cold_…"

"Man, what about my van?"

"And I can't wait to get something to eat."

Hannibal was running on fumes; his last reserves all but gone. He held up his hands like Richard Nixon and shushed his men.

"First things first, guys."

Face, B.A and Murdock leaned in eagerly.

"Just let me finish my cigar, okay?"

_Almost Fini…Stay Tuned_


	10. That's A Wrap

_**Chapter 10 (Epilogue)**_

"How'd you manage to finish Prescott and Redthorn off, again?" asked Mrs. Hawkins for at least the third time since the A-Team had returned just after noon. She bent diligently over Hannibal's wound, pulling thread through a needle with her teeth. It seemed inevitable that the events of the previous night, many times retold, embellished and exaggerated, would become a permanent part of the folklore of Possum Lodge.

Hannibal didn't wince as she went about her task, but offered a disarming grin instead. "Ma'am, there are so many examples in history of…" he gritted his teeth, "a smaller force defeating superior numbers. You just have to know your enemy's weaknesses, then exploit them. Right, Face?"

The younger man's mouth was stuffed with scrambled eggs, bacon and pancake. He looked up, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel's, then swallowed the food with a guilty look. "Yeah, that's it." Face took a gulp of strong coffee. "Just another day at the office."

B.A., from his repose on one of the armchairs, was impassive. He'd gotten his van and its precious contents back without so much as a scratch, but the little machine that looked like a stereo hadn't been in the backseat. Something told him it had been in Ike Redthorn's home before the whole thing had blown skyward. He looked like a child stoically dealing with the loss of a beloved pet, and had said little on the brief ride back into town and afterward.

"What about poor ol' Mr. O'Faolan?" Mrs.' Hawkins' eyes were wide as she worked. "You ever find his body?"

"Let's just say, in addition to felony charges for dogfighting and drug and weapons trafficking, your former constable and his deputy are also looking at first-degree murder charges," said Face, some of his dignity recovered. After they'd finished off the remnants of the Brotherhood of the Black Fox, the A-Team, following Prescott's whimpered confessions, had located the old root cellar buried just west of the constabulary: high-grade marijuana and heroin, enough weapons to arm half the county, and human remains. No doubt a forensic team would confirm they belonged to the late Ronin O'Faolan.

B.A. nodded in agreement, his gold jingling softly. "Yeah, momma, them two were bad news. But they ain't gonna be botherin' you folks no more."

"What about that daughter of his? Mary? Marsha?" Mr. Hawkins asked, clicking his fingers together while trying to remember. "Only met her once, down at the co-op. Seemed like some kinda wild woman, but a good egg like her daddy. They get her too?"

Hannibal looked to B.A., then to Face, both of whom bore an _our-lips-are-sealed_ expression. "Moira. She helped us out against those sleazebags; she's quite a woman. I think she places a high value on her privacy, so you might see her," he searched for the right phrase, "once in a blue moon?"

"Suppose so. Ain't right, though, poor woman livin' out there all alone."

Face interrupted Mr. Hawkins. "Don't worry about her. She's, ah, got a little more bite than most women, you might say."

"Is that so?" The mayor sipped at his coffee. "Well, if you say so, Mr. Peck…"

Mrs. Hawkins, like a mother hen, shook a finger at Hannibal, who was trying to stand already. "You just stay off that there leg for a while, Mr. Smith. Take it from an ol' school nurse. You just have yourself some tea, and I'll get an ice pack for you," she admonished, pouring a third cup for her patient, then bustling off to the kitchen.

"Always ice packs," mused Hannibal. "Did you get in touch with the Szabo sisters again, Face?"

"I sure did. They haven't forgotten me, you'll be pleased to know. And they still want us to take their case. If we're willing, that is," he grinned.

B.A. groaned. "We gotta drive back forty-eight hours wit' that fool Murdock? Where's he gone off to, anyway?"

Before Hannibal could answer him, Face chimed in. "He took the dog for a walk, remember? I think he's feeling better already."

"Feelin' better? You fellas were out in the cold all night; did he catch pneumonia out there?" Mr. Hawkins asked, concerned.

This time Hannibal spoke. "Not exactly. But don't worry, he's not contagious."

"Oh."

B.A. scowled; his patience was nearly gone after their long ordeal. He quickly changed the subject. "You manage to track all them bad guys down?" he asked Mr. Hawkins, who was sipping from a stoneware mug.

"That's the darndest thing," said the mayor with the hint of a boyish smile. "See, I was readin' the town charter, and according to section eight, clause nineteen, in the event that the town constable's a, 'scuse my French here, behavin' like a real sumbitch, the mayor's got the author'ty to round up a posse and throw him an' his cronies in the pokey."

Hannibal, B.A. and Face shared a look of amusement. "So, did you?" Hannibal asked.

"Yessir, we sure as heck did." Hayward Hawkins puffed out his chest with pride. "Ol' Mick Aldrich, Ezra Fain from the hardware store, Robbie Ray, Jay Bruce McLarin…he'll prob'ly be the next constable, if we can persuade him…and me. Locked 'em all up in that holdin' cell like sardines in a can," he said, beaming.

"Jay Bruce…why does that name ring a bell?" yawned Face, rubbing his eyes. In addition to being ravenously hungry, he was in dire need of twelve straight hours on a soft mattress. He'd probably have to settle for his seat in the van instead.

"You prob'ly met his pretty little cousin, Millie Rose, over at the Happy Catfish." Mrs. Hawkins, who'd re-entered with a frozen ice pack, winked at Face conspiratorially. "She's just the sweetest girl, isn't she?"

Face winced. "Yeah. Real sweet." He pulled his leather datebook from the breast pocket of the navy sport jacket he'd changed into. "Hannibal, remind me to call Rochelle and Cyane Szabo again once we get on the road? I don't want them to think I'm neglecting their case," he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

"After we get on the road," answered Hannibal. He looked down at the wound, freshly dressed and stitched shut, and, seeing Mrs. Hawkins smile, returned the favor. "Feels just about a hundred percent better. Thanks."

"Oh, we should be thankin' you fellas. You got rid of both of our problem children, and you made our town safe again," said Mr. Hawkins.

Hannibal reached for the cane the mayor had loaned him. "Nothing to it. We may not have it all together sometimes, but together we have it all," he said, gesturing to his men. "Redthorn and Prescott are gonna be making license plates for a long time, which is just about the only profession suited to scuzzballs like them."

"Took, c'mon back here!"

The big husky bounded into the living room, heedless to Murdock's call. He scampered straight over to B.A., who pulled back as if scalded.

"Get this damn dog off me, fool!"

"Took, sit," commanded Mr. Hawkins. Took instantly obeyed, tail wagging still.

"Now, B.A., that is no way to speak to a noble member of the _Canis domesticus _ family, especially one with as many shared genes to _Lupus lupus _as Took here," chided Murdock, sauntering into the living room. Clean at last, he wore a bright orange T-shirt with the caption _Howl If You've Been To Albuquerque, N.M._ underneath his favorite bomber jacket.

B.A. Baracus, pushed to his limit, sprang to his feet and grabbed his nemesis firmly by the collar. "Fool, I had about enough of yo' crazy wolf talk to last my whole life long. Now we got two more days goin' back to L.A., and if you say one more word 'bout it, there's gonna be a big spot of roadkill somewhere jus' past Little Rock," he snarled.

Murdock's eyes rolled in their sockets like those of a startled horse. "Okay, okay, big guy. I got it." He frantically gestured to the leather pouch strung around his neck. "See that? Fresh mistletoe and wolfbane. I'm feelin' fresher than a chrysanthemum."

The chokehold loosened. "You better be, foo'."

Rubbing at his throat, Murdock turned to Mrs. Hawkins as if nothing had happened. "Ma'am, you mind if I use your powder room before we saddle on up?"

"Of course not, sweetie." She pointed. "First on the right down that hall."

"Much obliged," said Murdock, tipping his cap.

Mr. Hawkins watched him go. "You're sure he's all right?" he said, lowering his voice.

Hannibal stood with the aid of the cane. "I've been sure for almost fifteen years now."

"Oh, look at the time," Face said, pointing to his watch. "We are planning to get to Tulsa tonight, aren't we, Hannibal?"

"Right." The colonel shook hands with their hosts one more time. "Folks, it's been a pleasure, and hopefully you won't be needing our services again for a really, really long time."

"Well, I was hoping to get Millie Rose a nice young man for the Founders' Day dance," Mrs. Hawkins lamented, eyeing Face, who nervously straightened his tie.

"I'll be sure to let you know if I ever meet one." He flashed a smile. "Thanks for the food; it sure hit the spot. I will say one thing about the South; you guys really know how to fill a man's stomach."

B.A. was the last to say goodbye. He hugged Mrs. Hawkins the way he might have his own mother, then frowned.

"Where is that crazy fool? Always makin' us wait…"

He stomped down the hall and pounded on the bathroom door with one fist. "Hurry up, man! We're ready to go!"

There was the sound of a flush and the water running. Then, softly, the voice of H.M. Murdock from behind the closed door.

"Trapped for millenia beneath ceaselessly shifting sands, buried among his priceless earthly treasures yet unable to escape the strange and terrible curse placed upon him by his treacherous Grand Vizier, Sakmut…he is now unleashed upon the world in all his fury!"

B.A.'s pounding intensified. "Shut up and come on outta there 'fore I break it in, fool!"

His threat was in vain; the door opened to reveal Murdock, covered from head to toe in what appeared to be the Hawkins' entire household supply of Charmin. Only his dark eyes, bright with mischief, were visible beneath his wrappings. Both arms were held before him as if sleepwalking.

"Behold, Amun-Murdokh!"

"Oh, _man!_"

Hannibal laughed, Face stared in disbelief, Took barked, and the Hawkinses shared a glance of amusement as they all watched B.A. charge through the living form after the fleeing form of the mummy.

_Fini_

_(Many, many thanks to all those who have read this story and commented upon it. It's a labor of love and I do it for you, the readers. Hopefully I'll have another episode-length story in the works very soon.) ~Heather (Mizhowlinmad)_


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